


so long as you come home at the end of the day

by herowndeliverance (atheilen)



Series: under their own vine and fig tree [2]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AU of my own AU, Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentions of Slavery, Washingdad, because one WIP with this premise wasn't enough apparently, mentions of corporal punishment, mentions of indentured servitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:42:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/pseuds/herowndeliverance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Washington wants to give his newfound son the world. For now, though, he'll settle for getting Alexander back to Mount Vernon in one piece.</p><p>This...presents more challenges than he would have thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if i could grant you peace of mind

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to [scioscribe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/pseuds/scioscribe) for the beta. This story would not exist without the support of her, [ossapher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher), and [ackamarackuss](ackamarackuss.tumblr.com)
> 
> So once upon a time, I began [an AU in which Washington is Hamilton's biological father.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/375677) Then I said to myself, "Self, what if he got to raise him after Rachel died," and thus this was born. You could also read it as more of a canon-era adoption AU, if that suits your taste better. I'll try to alternate updates.

_1768  
_

_“Alexander, off the railing!”_

George Washington was no stranger to paternal concern. After some of the stunts his stepson had pulled, it was a wonder his hair hadn’t gone entirely white. As for his stepdaughter…that was a different kind of fear, one he didn’t often allow himself to examine because it would serve no purpose. The kind that was tinged with sorrow and inevitability already, because he knew it would be realized one day. He would have to bury her, and until then he wouldn’t dwell.

But even he was surprised at the whipcrack force of his own voice as the child he had known for a scant few weeks clambered up the ship’s railing and turned his face to the saltwater spray. The boy’s grip was strong, but he was so small and fragile-looking that it was easy to imagine him losing his balance and being swept away by a gust of wind.

The boy tossed a quick smile back at him over his shoulder. His mother’s smile, thank God…that was fortunate for Alexander and extremely unfortunate for George, who already had an idea of how very tightly that smile could have him wrapped around its wearer’s little finger. “I’m fine, sir!”

“Not a suggestion, Alex. Come down.”

“One moment, sir—“

“ _Now,_ Alexander.“

Somehow his tone of voice had managed to slip from ‘worried father scolding errant child’ to ‘commanding officer reprimanding disobedient subordinate.’ It was too much, and he knew it instantly. Alexander did as he was told, but he crept back to where George waited with his head down, and stood before him like a criminal awaiting the sentence of the magistrate.

“I apologize for my disrespect, sir,” he said. He wouldn’t look at George.

 _He’s said those words before, in that tone,_ George realized. Who had made him afraid? Was it Hamilton? George knew he should have dueled that reprobate when he had the chance.

George slipped an arm around the boy’s bony, too-thin shoulder. Alexander trembled at the touch, and George tried his best to pretend it was from the cold alone. “Come on, son, let’s go below. We should talk.”

The boy suffered himself to be led, whether out of fear of having transgressed some boundary or sheer exhaustion George didn’t know. Two weeks into the journey and Alexander showed few signs of developing sea legs, not that it stopped him from running around the ship at full tilt. More than one well-bred lady had given George a cold look, when they saw the bruises the boy had gotten from accidentally flinging himself onto the deck. He reminded George of nothing so much as the puppies at Mount Vernon, when they got so enthusiastic at the prospect of walking but couldn’t quite figure out how all their limbs worked together. George helped him down the steps, pretending the arm around the boy’s shoulder was there for guidance alone, not support or affection or anything else that might offend his pride—Alexander, for all that he was so much his mother’s child, was as proud as any Washington ever born. And worse, as stubborn as any Ball about it. In return, Alexander pretended he wasn’t leaning on George.

 _It’s a dance,_ he thought, _only no one told us the steps, or who should lead_. He’d been as clumsy as Alexander, once, in a different way—his limbs grew faster than his mind, and it had taken him years to learn how to use his body’s strength. When he learned to dance, he was forever tripping over himself, treading on some poor lady’s toe, or tripping over her foot.

He had never felt so clumsy as now.

Their quarters were among the biggest on the ship, which meant, of course, that they were completely inadequate in size for people of George’s stature and Alexander’s disposition. Alex didn’t sit on the bed so much as slump down onto it in defeat. George, because it was the best of a whole bunch of bad options, sat down next to him. It was harder than it should be, almost painful, for him to take his hand off the boy’s back and force it to stillness in his lap.

“We have to put up with each other while we’re on the ship, sir. I know I am…not easy to take, in close quarters, and I shall endeavor to make myself as agreeable as possible to you in future.”

Had the kid just stolen his line? “Alexander…”

The words tumbled from the boy’s mouth in a jumbled rush, crashing into George like the waves breaking against the ship’s hull. “I was not conscious of my disrespect, sir. If it means we must part, I ask only for your indulgence until we make landfall."

It took George a few moments too long to realize what the kid was asking. And what that implied about how terrified he was. “Oh. Oh, Alexander, dearest heart, no.”

That, of course, was another damned slip, and would scare the boy every bit as much as George’s yelling had, if not more. George wasn’t a fool. He knew _I love you_ could mean nothing at this juncture, no matter how true it had been from the moment he had first set eyes on his son. From the moment Rachel had written informing him of Alexander’s existence. Affection would only feel like a trap to the boy, when the word _son_ made him flinch and George’s arm around his shoulder made him shake.

But he’d committed to it now, and there was nothing for it but to see it through. “You are coming home with me, son, and that’s the end of the matter.”

Alexander shifted his weight onto one hip, turning his body toward George’s, and thrust his chin up into something he must have thought approached the opening gambit in a challenge. To George’s eye, though, it looked a lot more like the stubborn mulishness that was Patsy refusing to rest when she ought. “And what do you intend to do with me, sir, once you have me there?”

With Patsy, he couldn’t allow himself to get angry. The second he got angry, the battle was lost. So he took the same approach here, though it cost him. “To raise you, of course.”

“To what end, sir?”

What _end?_ He had no idea what to do with this child. Luckily, he’d learned by now that when he made himself stay quiet, Alex would talk.

“Orphans must be useful, or we’re not worth keeping around. What use am I to you, sir?”

 _You’d as well ask what use my right hand, or my wits, or my tongue, or my heart, boy._ “You are not an orphan, Alexander.”

“James Hamilton was—is—my father, sir.”

George tried. Oh, how he tried, but in the end he couldn’t help his snort. “Son, I have _met_ Hamilton. If there’s a child in this world who resembles him less, I’ve not found him.”

“But you and I are nothing alike.” His voice wobbled a little as he said it. Alexander was a better liar than George, which was to say, still perfectly abysmal at it.

“James Hamilton’s son,” explained George, “would have perceived instantly how much I cared for you, and turned that to his advantage. He would have been perfectly obedient inasmuch as he would do exactly as I say, and not a whit more.  He would have taken everything from me that I was prepared to give him, asked for more, and offered nothing of himself. You? You, my stubborn boy, are a Washington.”

“Even if I accept that you once fucked my mother—"

“ _Alexander.”_

“Even if I accept,” the boy said, his voice sharp and high as that of a child half his age, “that once you took my mother to your bed, and that perhaps this happy event resulted in my conception, I fail to understand what you are doing now. Men plant their seed in whatever dirt they happen to find, but that doesn’t mean—“

“Alexander, _enough._ Say what you like to me, young man, but you _will_ school your tongue when you speak of your mother. She deserves your respect.”

Alexander sprung up off the bed as though shot from a cannon. “Ah, yes, my mother. The lady you got with child and then abandoned. I shall be certain to follow your sterling example. _Sir.”_

“Alex, I…” _I didn’t know,_ he almost said. _She didn’t tell me. I swear if I had known there would have been no power on this earth that would have kept me from you._ But then he got a look at the boy’s face, his upthrust chin, the precarious wobble of his lip. He couldn’t make himself do it. _If he must have something to hate, best it be me._

“May I please be excused, sir?” The diffidence in the boy’s voice, after such a clear challenge, almost broke George.

Good God, he was tired. Only a few weeks of this, and he was tired. _Is this to be the rest of my life, then?_ He got to his feet, a lot more slowly than Alex had. “I’ll go above, leave you the cabin,” he said, knowing it for a meager peace offering.

“Not what I asked, sir.”

George sighed. “Be careful, son, and don’t bother the other passengers.  I’ll expect you back at supper.”

*

Alex wasn’t back at supper. George went to watch the sun slip down below the horizon as he did every night, and there was no sign of him then either. One of the married women gave George a pitying look; he thought he preferred their ire at his supposed tyranny.

He swallowed his pride. “Your pardon, madam, but have you seen my—“

She pointed.

Curled up in a miserable tight ball at the very edge of the deck sat a shivering, burlap-wrapped bundle. George made his stride as light as he could—God forbid he startle the boy and have him topple over—and crouched down next to Alexander.

He bit his tongue on a thousand things. _You’ll catch a chill_ and _I was so worried_ and _I swear I recall purchasing you a perfectly serviceable jacket._ “Alexander, it’s time to sleep.”

“’M’not tired,” the child lied. He was reminding George more and more of Patsy, only Patsy had had far more excuse for such obstinate behavior, because she’d been six when she last tried to pull this off.

He knew exactly what he would have done with Patsy in such a state—scooped her up and lifted her to his shoulder, and put her to bed whether she willed it or no. But Patsy, for all he loved her more than life, was a Dandridge and a Custis. She had her mother’s generous heart, and might one day forgive such an injury to her pride. Alexander was blood, and George knew he never would.

 _I hope you have one just like you,_ his mother would tell him. He’d never known it for a curse before.

He held himself still. Waited.

Alexander, it turned out, was very good at arguing with his eyebrows alone when he wanted to. George was better. The boy got his point.

Once he had surrendered, Alexander got to bed with surprisingly little fuss. He was unusually calm as he got ready, and stayed silent, which in retrospect should have been George’s first clue that something was very wrong. But God help him, he was too tired and too shamefully relieved to ask.

Then came the other nightly waiting game. He had learned quickly that Alexander couldn’t sleep until he believed George to be asleep as well, and until then would try to take up as little space and make as little noise as possible. He’d learned almost as quickly that _he_ couldn’t sleep until he felt the slow uncoiling of the boy’s limbs, heard the change in his breathing that signified all was well and he was finally at peace.

 _How are you so essential to me so soon,_ he wondered. He’d always thought he’d adore a child of his blood immediately, the way he had with Martha’s little ones. More, he thought he’d boast, the way he’d heard his friends do countless times. _Look what I made, isn’t he wonderful?_ What he felt for Alex was both more and less than that. His son was prickly and difficult and lacked every bit of the trust his stepchildren had extended him so freely. George saw himself in the boy, but what he saw was every pointless argument, every stupid fit of temper, every arrogant dismissal of the feelings of others that had ever issued from his own mouth.

And yet.

 _I can have no peace if you have none,_ he thought. _Your anger is my own, even when it’s directed at me. I grieve with you, and when pray God you feel joy again it will come to me a thousandfold._

What was trust compared to that, or gratitude? He had no need of such trifles.

Alexander’s breathing didn’t even out. Instead, it grew shorter, sharp and ragged, and George realized he was trying desperately not to cry. The urge to put his arms around the boy was a physical ache, but he didn’t dare—he knew from experience that if he didn’t push, his patience would be rewarded with the fragile weight of Alexander’s head on his chest, the sprawl of the boy’s limbs across his own, as though George’s body were unmarked territory he was surveying and had claimed for himself.

Then the boy made a high, desperate noise, like a mortally wounded animal, and shoved a fist into his mouth to stop the sound from carrying, and that spelled an end to George’s resolve.

“None of that, now,” he said, gently removing the boy’s clenched hand from his mouth and completely incongruously remembering Jacky’s odd thumb-sucking phase, which he’d started out of the blue when he was seven for no reason George or Martha had ever been able to figure out, and stopped just as suddenly three months later. He doubted Alexander’s troubles would fade so easily. “It’s all right to cry.”

Alexander wailed something indistinct, something that could have been _sorry_ or _stop it,_ and then his arms were around George’s neck and he clung for dear life, as though he really had been tossed overboard and George were the piece of driftwood he’d grabbed to keep from drowning.

He knew this particular set of steps in the dance by heart, at least. He sat up, enfolding the boy within the circle of his arms, and began to sway from side to side, keeping time with the waves as best he could.  

“ _Why,_ ” the boy moaned, half challenge, half reproach.

“Why what, love?” he ask, cursing himself at once for the slip.

Mercifully, Alexander chose not to call him out for it. _“Why are you doing this, I don’t understand…”_

He had to choose the answer that would least terrify Alexander. Somehow. “Taking care of you is my job, son. My duty.”

“But I keep fucking everything up…”

Cursing once was a deliberate lapse in manners meant to provoke; twice in one day veered dangerously close to a habit, and that he could not allow. “Alexander,” he said, voice level, “I expect you to conduct yourself in speech and manner as the gentleman you are, understood?” He kept his voice and touch much more gentle than the use of such language probably deserved, but the boy still shattered completely, and it was all George could do to ride out the wild storm of his sobs.

Eventually they subsided, as all storms must, and George disentangled himself from the boy to get water from the washbasin.  Passing a cloth over Alexander’s face ranked as one of the most terrifyingly intimate things he had ever done, consumed as he was with sudden irrational panic that even a touch might harm this fragile creature.

“Now,” he said, “you must know, Alexander…” He trailed off.  How should the boy know? George hadn’t told him. And he of all people should know nothing about this was certain. His father had died before George could know him as anything other than an all-seeing god; who was he to promise constancy?

“You can make every mistake,” he said, “and I swear I’ll still be around for you.” If he were given to smiling, he would have done so then. “You do not have to like it, Alexander, but I will…Alex?”

The half-anticipated protest never materialized. No sound came from the boy but his soft, even breathing.

He was finally, blessedly still.


	2. and when my prayers to god were met with indifference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to [insipidity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/insipidity/pseuds/insipidity) for information about Virginia law regarding indentured servitude and illegitimate children, and to [ossapher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher) for informing me that Benedict Arnold ran a shipping company in the 1760s and frequently traveled back and forth from the West Indies. She knew not what she wrought...
> 
> And as ever, my undying gratitude to [scioscribe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/pseuds/scioscribe), best of betas, best of friends, without whom none of this would be possible. Any remaining errors are my own.

George woke to the furious scratch of a quill.

_Lawrence,_ he thought, already up and busy, attending to his correspondence even though the sun had not yet risen, even though he took this journey for his health and should by rights be still abed. George knew he must get up and help his brother, for Lawrence would never rest until his affairs were settled. He would rise, any moment now, and render what assistance he might. It was the least he could do for poor sick Lawrence, who had given him so much. But good God, taking care of someone whose mind so far outstripped his own was exhausting, and surely his brother would forgive him if he waited for the dawn.

No. No, that wasn’t right. Lawrence Washington had run out of time at last, and the diligent correspondent working by the faint gleam of lamplight alone was—

“Alexander, love?” His eyes were still half-shut from slumber, but it was impossible to miss the boy’s flinch, as though George had caught him out at something. The movement of the quill grew ever more frantic, unceasing.

_Patience,_ George reminded himself. _He doesn’t trust you yet._ He pried his eyes open so he could take a look at his son. The way Alexander’s dark curls framed his face, illuminated by the lamplight’s faint, ruddy glow, made George’s chest go tight with emotions he could only describe as awe and wonder, but there was something worrisome about the tightness of his son’s mouth, his drawn pallor. Alexander was far, far too young to seem so…worn. Haunted. “Alexander, come back to sleep, it’s still dark outside.”

“I know,” the boy said, his voice uncommonly hoarse--with exhaustion, perhaps, or too-long-delayed grief. Was he sick? George would have to watch for that. “I just need to write something down.”

Alexander had taken to the Latin grammar that was among their many book purchases the way most boys would take to hunting or riding. George allowed himself a small, smug moment of completely unjustified paternal satisfaction at that, even though he knew he could take no credit for it. God. His son. _His son,_ alive, here, now, and more brilliant than he ever could have hoped for.

More brilliant, and more obstinate. “The Romans will wait, you know, they do not lack for time.”

“Shh,” interjected Alexander, crossly and with a great deal more sharpness than was tolerable from a boy of his age, especially at this hour.

“Come back to bed, young man, that is quite enough.” Clearly the child needed his rest, if his nerves were frayed enough that he forgot himself this way.

“I assure you, sir,” said Alexander in a tiny voice, “you’ll hardly notice I am gone.”

There was something very, very wrong about that, but George couldn’t put his finger on it. “Come back to sleep, Alexander.”

“But it’s almost dawn.” Which was when George normally rose, and Alex had thus far been cheerful enough about joining him.

_Stubborn boy._ No use digging his heels in, and obviously Alexander wanted to make a point. George would have to let him. “Well, I’m going back to sleep.” It would do the boy good, he thought, to win a minor indulgence, and at least Alexander had nothing of laziness about him.

“Hey—" Alexander said, and then his mouth snapped shut. George held his breath. _If I push him he’ll withdraw,_ he thought. _I need to wait for him to come to me, I need…_

His eyes closed of their own will. When he opened them—just a few moments later, surely?—Alexander was gone.

George’s gut churned, whether from fear or his own long-suppressed seasickness he couldn’t say. He pressed his lips together, hard, forcing the queasy knot in his stomach down. Alexander had probably just gone above, that was all, and he was even now making a nuisance of himself. George would find him and scold him, as he had done many times before, and whichever other passengers the boy had accosted would smile indulgently at Alexander and glare at George, as they had done many times before. Alex was the darling of the ship, as was only right and proper.

There was a note on the tiny desk they shared. No…not a note. A neatly folded, thick letter. Alexander hadn’t been studying at all, then. _What have you done, dear heart? Where are you?_

George forced himself out of bed with most uncharacteristic sloth and cowardice, washing and dressing with the absolute bare minimum of fuss. Only after he had attended to these necessary motions did he allow himself to take a seat and open Alexander’s letter (addressed, infuriatingly, to _Colo. Washington._ ) He knew he wasn’t going to like what he found therein, and wanted to give himself whatever paltry preparation he could.

It was nowhere near enough.

_Dear Sir,_ Alexander had written in a graceful flowing hand that belied his scant years,

_It would be most improper of me not to begin by expressing my ~~most~~ sincere gratitude to you for all you have done ~~for me~~ on my behalf, especially on so slight an acquaintance as ours. Though we had never met you took it upon yourself to shelter ~~your bastard an orphan a motherless~~ a stranger you had known for a mere handful of days, on the strength of nothing more than a letter sent to you by my late mother and the word of my cousins. ~~Even if there were proof Even if I were really~~ There are not many men alive, sir, who would behave as you have done, and I shall be much indebted to your kindness all the days of my life. I have always dreamed of a greater destiny than Nevis or St. Croix could bequeath to me, and I will never forget that it was you who made such a thing possible at last._

“No, love,” George whispered. His breath came ragged. “That was your mother.” _Rachel, you should have told me. I don’t care if you hated me, but you should have told me before this, before it was too goddamn late._ Tears pricked at his eyes, and he had to blink them away furiously before he could lower his head to the letter once more.

_Your generosity notwithstanding it would be the height of folly to expect you to continue to provide for me especially since ~~you don’t I don’t I’m not your son~~ with my mother’s death there can be no proof of our alleged filial connection. I am sensible enough of the defects of my own character, good sir, to think it decidedly improbable that any private attachment between us should ever flourish, absent such proof, and thus I think it best to take my leave of you ~~before I make everything worse.~~_

_~~If I could be of use to you then maybe~~ There being no work of value I may do for you to make such expense as you have undergone justifiable, it seems necessary that I should offer my services elsewhere in order that I might eventually establish myself in this new land to which you have brought me. Mr. Benedict Arnold—you remember, sir, the one who was telling all the funny stories and making Mrs. Palmer laugh so hard we all thought she might expire of it— ~~I beg your pardon sir surely you don’t care~~ has kindly agreed to take me on ~~as an indentured an apprentice~~ in service. ~~He was telling me about some of the work he does and He says I’m a bright lad and could go far~~_

_The terms are as generous as could be expected for one in my position but will prevent me from being as prompt as I would like about the matter of repayment. I regret to say I do not know the exact cost of our passage nor the clothes and books you provided me—which I left sir I swear I did you can check the inventory I wrote you if you like. I would NEVER steal from you or anybody, honor and decency forbid such base ingratitude as that, besides which it would be wrong, you have to believe me. I thought of checking your cash book to make sure my estimate was accurate but I didn’t want you to think me so impertinent as to pry into your private papers and anyway I’m pretty sure I got it right but please check and if I’m wrong you can come find Mr. Arnold once we reach port and tell him what I really owe you. I give you my word ~~as a gentleman~~ I will pay you back, no matter how long it takes. I beg your patience in this endeavor in the meantime, and_

_I remain Dear Sir yr most obed  
A Hamilton_

_please excuse the errors in this letter I was going to copy it out again but I didn’t have time and_

The writing’s smoothness had steadily deteriorated, and by the time Alexander reached his postscript it was as wobbly and uneven as the script of a child barely out of the nursery. The last half of the final sentence was an illegible blot—Alexander had either spilled his ink over it or scratched it out so viciously it made no difference.

With shaking hands, George folded the letter and set it atop the rest of Alexander’s papers. He had no doubt that if he looked through the rest, he would find a meticulous list of every single purchase he had made for the boy, down to the cost of their food. Alexander was nothing if not diligent. Nothing if not thorough. He couldn’t afford to be otherwise.

_You idiot,_ thought George. _You perfect, blind fool._ Even in his own thoughts, he was unsure whether he addressed Alexander, who was going to get the scolding of his life when George got his hands on him, or himself. George knew he deserved a lot more than a scolding for his negligence, his carelessness, his arrogant, self-assured complacency….

_Enough._ He didn’t have time for this. His son, his precious Alexander, didn’t have time for this. He closed his eyes, allowed himself a count of ten. By _nine_ his hands were still once more. At _ten_ he stood up and started for the door, his stride even, his body subordinate to his will.

He wished he could say the same of his heart.


	3. you got more than you gave (and i wanted what i got)

No matter how tempting it was, George knew he couldn’t yield to his first inclination: namely, to tear the entire ship apart until he found his boy. He wouldn’t make a scene of it and ransack things, demanding entry to each berth until he found where Benedict Arnold had stashed Alexander. That would lead to little more than embarrassment for everyone involved, and wouldn’t bring his son back to him any faster.

No, it was best that they settle this like gentlemen, calmly and with dignity appropriate to their stations. Once his son was again safe in his care, he could afford to indulge his feelings. Until then, he had to think, and clearly.

But where would they be? He had the sort of vague awareness of Arnold that one possessed for a slight acquaintance of stature enough to be worthy of notice. He knew Arnold had been a ship’s captain, but was not this ship’s captain—and why hadn’t Alex gone to the captain, if what he wished was honorable service? He would have to ask Alex later, when he was excoriating the boy for his many grievous errors in judgment.

A horrible thought occurred to George. _God in heaven, if he’s chained him in the hold, I’ll kill him._ A child Alexander’s age should not even be exposed to the conditions of a cargo hold, let alone…no. _No._ A man of honor wouldn’t….

_And how do you know he’s a man of honor, when he did what he did?_

If there was one thing George Washington took pride in, it was his ability to take the measure of a man’s character, though the harried circumstances of this journey rendered him more vulnerable to error than he might have been otherwise. And more guarded. He could afford to be generous of spirit when he traveled alone. Now that he had charge of Alexander, there was no room for mislaid trust.

Or perhaps, he admitted to himself, such thoughts were a mere cover for his annoyance at being unable to figure Benedict Arnold out. Such close quarters as they shared meant George had exchanged pleasantries at least with most of the passengers, and Arnold had at first seemed all that was amiable, the sort of competent, hotly ambitious young man George understood and could get along with. All that kind of man needed was to feel important, _worthy,_ and George knew how to satisfy that hunger, being uncomfortably familiar with it himself.

But there was something else familiar about Benedict Arnold, and it made George’s stomach churn with more than just the violent motion of the waves. The man had the sort of temper that was roused to its full powers by being slighted—George had seen the second mate fail to address him with what Arnold evidently considered proper respect, and he’d been vicious.

In short, thought George, Benedict Arnold was exactly the kind of man he would have wished to have under his command, and the last man on earth he wanted anywhere near his brilliant, insolent, fragile little boy.

No time to waste, then. George would just have to be methodical about it, and start on the main deck—Arnold was the kind of man who was constantly insinuating himself into the business of the crew, like Alex had. Surely one of them would know where and how Arnold spent his days. George felt oddly betrayed, for Alexander’s sake if not his own…many of the crew seemed fond of his son, adopting him as a sort of mascot or good-luck charm. Some of them must have witnessed this…this _transaction,_ and none of them had thought to say a word to George.

As he strode up to the deck George offered up a quick prayer of thanks that Alexander had used what remained of his sense and pulled his idiotic stunt while they were still aboard ship, rather than waiting until they made port. If he’d managed to slip away in a throng of people, if he’d found some merchant who…

 _Don’t even think it._ If he allowed his mind to follow that scenario through to its logical conclusion, he might give in to the panic that knotted his gut, and Alexander could ill afford that. George would explain the situation to Arnold— _the man who bought my child as if he were cattle instead of dragging him home to his father the way any gentleman ought to have done—_ they would settle things reasonably, and all would be well.

Fortune smiled on him that day, for it didn’t take him long to find the man. Benedict Arnold was taking advantage of the fairer winds they had enjoyed of late to, it seemed, pace and mutter at the side of the deck as though offended by the very sea. This was not his ship, but he stood as though it were, peering over the horizon as if he could make land come closer through sheer force of will. George watched him a few moments in silence, hating the way he seemed to show no concern whatever for the catastrophe that was happening right now.

George waited for him to turn, to acknowledge him. It would not do to be seen as a desperate supplicant. The few moments of waiting, though, were agony.

When Arnold did turn, it was slower than his pacing, as calm and deliberate as George always aspired to be, but had to admit he had never been farther from in his life. “Ah,” said Arnold with the confident smile of a man who knew he had all the power in whatever negotiation was about to occur. It made George want to clench his fists. “Colonel. I wondered if I’d be seeing you today.”

 _You should not have wondered at all._ George’s heart beat in his chest at double time, and his words, when they came, were a shade too loud. “Then you will know my errand, sir.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Arnold genially. “May I be of some assistance?”

Oh, so they were going to play that game, then. Well. George could deal with that. “I’ve come to collect my idiot progeny,” he said, unable to keep the bite of his very real anger at Alexander out of his voice. “I apologize on Alexander’s behalf, sir, and you may rest assured he will be punished for bringing a respectable gentleman into a private family argument, but my son is not at liberty to make contracts without his father’s permission, which I do not and will not grant him.”

“Your son,” said Arnold. “Is that what he is? Young Hamilton told a different tale.”

And the sting of that betrayal was more of a shock than it had any right to be. George had, of necessity, been quiet about Alexander’s origins—he had not expected to take the boy home, not right away. He’d expected, at best, a long round of protracted negotiations with Rachel, during which he could prepare the ground for the Washingtons having suddenly adopted an orphan of foreign birth. But when he’d arrived to find Rachel gone, there was nothing else to do. Still, best not to court scandal, not before he had to.

It seemed he had to. “Alexander is a spirited boy, who does not always know his own interest,” explained George. “But I assure you, he is mine.”

Arnold’s smile was all the more frightening for how unthreatening it was. How pleasant, how reasonable. “Colonel Washington, sir,” he said. “I have heard your name before. Hard not to know the commander of the Virginia Regiment, weren’t you the toast of Paris for a while? You’re a man of such great renown.”

George felt himself flush deep with the old humiliation—his diary, his _failure,_ published for the whole world to see. “Why, I—“

“And one of the things I know about you,” said Arnold, making it clear in his inflection that there were many more things, and none of them good, “is that you have no children.”

“That’s enough,” George snapped. “I will not justify myself to you, nor do I have the slightest interest in playing games. I will ask you once, sir, and once only: _where is my son?”_

Arnold’s eyes moved—quickly, guiltily—to a point behind George. To the mast. George turned a bit, followed the man’s gaze upward. Where a tiny figure was climbing ever farther away through the sails, gripping for dear life to the rigging, buffeted by the winds.

George’s heart stopped.

“ALEXANDER!” George boomed in his battlefield voice. “ALEXANDER WASHINGTON, YOU COME DOWN FROM THERE THIS INSTANT!”

The name burst from him without thought, so right did it seem, but George heard several gasps, and when he managed to tear his gaze away from Alex he noticed half the crew and most of the passengers crowded around. Watching them. Watching him. One of the sailors even tossed another a coin.

George didn’t care. Alex froze at the sound of his voice, his foot slipped, and George knew that even if he ran it would be too late, he wouldn’t get there in time to break his son’s fall with his body….

Miraculously, Alex righted himself. Not so miraculously, he continued to climb higher. “YOU HEARD ME, ALEXANDER.”

“Colonel!” Alex called down. “I’m all right, I have work!”

George advanced on Benedict Arnold. “Did you order him up there, sir?”

Arnold shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “It’s easier than trying to carry a message myself. He’s little, that’s why there are midshipmen.”

“He’s a baby,” George corrected, heart in his throat. _My baby._

Arnold laughed. “He’s a Creole bastard. Such children know they must make their own way in the world. Hamilton can handle himself, and if you don’t know that you’re even more of a fool than I thought.”

“I would be very careful, sir, were I you,” George began, and then Alexander, finished with whatever inconsequential task Arnold had set him, began his descent.

Alexander had none of the midshipmen’s practiced agility. While they clambered through the rigging like it was their home, Alexander crept, tentative, unused to such movement. _Oh, good God, be careful, love,_ George prayed, not wanting to disrupt his concentration.

He looked Arnold dead in the eye. “That you would subject a child to such, sir…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, for everything he had to say would be grounds for challenge.

“Oh,” said Arnold, “so every servant and slave on all of your plantations is older than twenty? However did you manage that?”

“That’s different. I treat those in my care well.”

“And I intend to treat your little embarrassment well, or find him some other situation that will benefit us all, so why don’t you spare me your fake piety?”

“My son is not an embarrassment, sir, and I will thank you to cease referring to him as such.” 

Just then Alexander’s feet hit the deck with an audible thud, and George let out the ragged breath he’d been holding. “Colonel, sir,” said the boy. “This is a…I mean, I didn’t expect…sir?” His head was bent—like a servant’s, George realized with a pang—and he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, like he wanted to move—to run—but there was nowhere to go. His eyes darted nervously between George and Benedict Arnold, as though he couldn’t bear to dragged away from either.

George wanted to speak, but he had never been so terrified to do so in his life, being seized with an absurd conviction that if he spoke Alexander would somehow be knocked backwards off the deck with the force of his words, to slip forever beneath the waves.

Alexander tried again. “Sir, I apologize, have I—" He took half a step forward in George’s direction, and that was all it took for George’s paralysis to break. In two strides he had an armful of shivering boy pressed to his chest. Alex made a choked noise, and George almost let him go— _never, never_ —but then his arms tentatively reached out to grasp George’s shoulders like creeping ivy.

George would take it. Still overcome, he bent his head to press a kiss in Alexander’s salt-stiffened curls, in place of all the words that crowded in his throat. _Don’t you ever, ever do that to me again, young man_ and _You’re soaked to the skin, foolish boy_ and _I didn’t know I could love this much._ “Alexander,” he whispered into the boy’s neck instead. “Son.”

“As touching as your solicitude is, sir,” Benedict Arnold had the temerity to smarm, “the boy has been too long absent from his work.”

“How dare you—" George began, but Alexander was already wriggling out of George’s grip. He tried to hold on to the boy, but grasped at air. “Alexander, come back here, you do not need to listen to this nonsense.”

The words had no effect. Alexander clambered back across the heaving deck toward Arnold, his precarious hold on balance evident with every step. George almost couldn’t hear him over the wind, his voice was so timid. “Forgive me, sir,” he said to Arnold. “I forgot my place.”

George Washington had killed before, but always in the heat of battle, under the strict code of honor that defined the life of an officer. He had failed to uphold that code before—oh, how he had failed—but never had he wished so fervently to dispense with it. Never had he wished to murder a man in cold blood, without even the pretext of a duel…duels, after all, didn’t allow one to strangle an opponent to death with one’s bare hands and toss the carcass overboard, which was the fate this creature deserved.

Arnold clapped Alexander on the shoulder, and that was it, that was enough, George couldn’t do this anymore. “You will unhand my child, sir. Now.”

Arnold made no move to do so. “Or?”

 _Or I’ll see you on the dueling ground._ He drew breath to say it.

“Please stop!” wailed Alexander. “Colonel Washington, sir, it’s not worth it, I’m fine, I negotiated right, you don’t have to do anything, I promise…”

“Alex. Dearest. There’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you…” And for just a moment, it seemed as though the entire world stopped with the truth of that. Even the roar of the winds, the scandalized murmurs of the crew, shrank to nothing. George’s entire world was the little boy in front of him.

Arnold broke the spell. “Oh, please,” he said, “leave your kid for ten years and then expect us to watch you play the devoted father when it suits you? Everyone knows Hamilton’s terrified of you, so it’s best you leave him to me where I can teach him to make some use of himself.”

“God help me, Arnold, I didn’t know…”

 _“What?”_ Alexander gasped.

He locked eyes with Alexander. _Please believe me, son, if you believe nothing else I ever say._ “Your mother didn’t write me until just before she died, I came as soon as I heard, I swear to you…”

“All the way from Virginia?” a sailor called out, sounding impressed despite himself. _“Damn.”_ The chorus of speculation from the passengers grew louder at this point—George caught _who was she_ and _how can he know for sure,_ but none of it mattered.

“I love my son, Mr. Arnold,” he explained. “I want my son by my side. If it is compensation you wish, I’m certain I can—" His throat closed. It was not enough and he knew it. “I ought never have so impugned your honor. Please let me compensate you for your trouble.”

“Sir, don’t…” Alexander began, but Arnold’s grip on his shoulder tightened.

George swallowed. He knew what he had to do. “I ask...I _beg_ your forgiveness for my, my intemperate words and the arrogance of my manner. Whatever sum you name, sir, can be but paltry in comparison to his worth. I will pay it and gladly.”

“Whatever sum,” said Arnold, flat. “Interesting.”

“He’s just a boy,” George pleaded. “I beg you, don’t make him pay for my mistakes, sir. Please.”

The hand slid from Alex’s shoulder. Benedict Arnold smiled at him, or at a point beyond him, far-off, wistful. “I am neither monster nor scoundrel, sir. Go to your father, Hamilton…young Master Washington, I should say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to those of you who listened to me hash out this scene 87405 times on Tumblr. You know who you are. Any remaining errors are, as ever, my own.


	4. that boy is mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to the people on tumblr who let me fret at them about this, specifically [ossapher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher), [SamIAm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SamIAm/pseuds/SamIAm), [talriconosco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talriconosco/pseuds/talriconosco), and of course [scioscribe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/pseuds/scioscribe), who is directly responsible for that bit at the end. She knows the one. Thanks for putting up with me. <3
> 
> TW for misogyny and child abuse references.

Young Master Washington, as he was thenceforth and ever after to be known, did not obey with alacrity. But nor did he protest, for which George was thankful. Instead he stood frozen, blinking as if dazzled by the sun in his eyes. His head turned toward Arnold, slowly, as though asking for the permission Arnold had already granted.

George cleared his throat, but Arnold intercepted his attempt at speech. “Go on, kid, it’s fine. You’re fine.” He sounded…unaccountably weary, and George would have asked him what on earth he meant, but then Arnold shoved Alexander forward.

It was gentle as such things went, more a touch than a push, but Alexander’s legs were shaking and he overbalanced. George managed to catch him just before his knees hit the deck.

 _Lay a finger on my son again and I swear I will break your arm._ He almost said it aloud, but mindful of the precious weight in his arms, he choked on his helpless rage. He was yet a supplicant, and oh, how he hated it.

 _Alexander is more important than your cursed pride,_ he told himself sternly, as he put his arms around the boy’s waist to guide him upright. But Alex’s knees failed to straighten, and George made a snap decision.

“Up you come, young man, that’s it,” he said, and lifted Alexander to his shoulder, to the scattered applause of the crew. The boy let out a breathless squeak, and George felt the bony jut of the boy's knees push into him as he struggled to get away, but George quickly tucked one arm behind his legs to hold him in place. The other arm he let rest across his son's back. Alexander was so cold that holding him was like pressing a sheet of ice to himself, and George’s own jacket was quickly soaked through. “You’re safe, Alexander,” he said when the shivering didn’t subside. “I’ve got you and you’re safe, do you understand me?”

“Yessir,” said the boy, and even through his chattering teeth George could hear the skepticism that meant _I don’t understand you at all, sir, but I will agree just to get you to stop talking._ There was little George could do but oblige him, no matter how much he ached to somehow make Alexander understand through sheer force of will.

George and Arnold stared at each other another long moment, and George’s throat closed with sudden terror that he might say he changed his mind, he wanted Alexander after all and he would take George before the magistrate when they made landfall. But Arnold’s eyes were wide and lost and _young_ , all of a sudden—for one unguarded instant he seemed almost Alexander’s age. And then it was gone, and his expression went hooded and blank.

“It must be nice,” he said, “to have…well. You’ll stick with that one, if you know what’s good for you.”

“If you’re suggesting, sir, that I would abandon my child—“

Arnold held up a hand. “Wasn’t talking to you, Washington, calm yourself. Now, I’d give you what he signed, but your hands are full at the moment, so…” His smile was what one would call, from a friend, gently mocking. George wanted to wipe it off his face with his fist. He rubbed Alexander’s back in slow, rhythmic circles instead, the way he used to do when Patsy and Jacky were small and woke from nightmares— _hush, baby, it wasn’t real, I’m here now_.

Arnold took a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jacket and tore it in half, releasing the pieces to float lazily in the wind. The men watched them until they sank beneath the waves. “Are you satisfied, sir?”

“ _Thank you,”_ George breathed.

The murmurs of the crew and passengers rose in volume— _that’s the spirit_ and _should have kept the kid just to spite the asshole_ were the two George could distinguish. His grip on Alexander tightened involuntarily.

“Right, show’s over,” Arnold called out, very much as though it were his role to enforce discipline on the ship. “Leave them be, they’ve got things to sort out between them, and we have business.”

Their audience dispersed at Arnold’s order, and George’s stomach sank. Of course. He had promised Arnold _anything_ , and he was a man of his word. He wondered if Martha would mind supporting him and Alexander from her widow’s share if it came to that.

George swallowed his pride one more time. “About the matter of recompense, sir…”

Arnold waved a lazy hand, magnanimous in victory. “Don’t worry about it.”

Alexander went rigid in George’s arms. George himself stiffened in shock. “But sir, the debt I owe you…” Was incalculable; he knew that and so did Arnold. Arnold could beggar him and George would still have to thank him for his generosity. Why would Arnold not ask for at least the profit he would have made?

“There is none, sir. Take your son; I wish you both every happiness.”

George found himself without words. He should be rejoicing that he had reclaimed his son without consequences, but the thought of being so much in Arnold’s debt rankled. To not even be allowed to try to balance the account.... _Alexander,_ he thought, and bowed to the man, a graceless undertaking when holding one’s child, but he managed. “I—I thank you, good sir.”

Arnold doffed his hat to them and smiled; a hesitant lopsided grin, then turned back to stare out at the ocean. George wondered what he was searching for, and if he would ever find it.

He adjusted Alexander on his shoulder, so as to get a better grip on him _—must not let the boy fall, not ever again—_ and started the walk belowdeck; Alexander squirmed in protest.

“Let _go_ of me,” he whined, in a remarkably insolent tone considering his recent willingness to sell himself into degrading bondage. Would he have dared speak so to his master? “I can walk.”

“I will not, and you may not,” George said. He’d meant to keep his voice soft, gentle, but what was quiet enough on the deck turned into a raspy almost-shout below, and he flinched at the harshness of his own voice. Worse, so did Alexander.

The boy’s trembling intensified, and George felt his face heat with shame. He opened his mouth to apologize— _I just want to get you warm and dry as soon as I can, that’s all--_ but Alexander beat him to it. “I…I beg your pardon, sir.”

Thankfully, they reached their cabin then; George deposited Alexander very gently onto the chair by the desk, where his letter still lay open. Alexander kept up his nervous babble. “Forgive me I didn’t mean to cause you such trouble I…”

“Hush, Alexander,” he said. He had to work to keep his fists from clenching in frustration. What to say to this child that could somehow convey both George’s devotion and his fury at the boy’s unacceptable behavior? For this could never happen again, it had been too close, he could not endure the like. It was the same problem he always had with Jacky….he simply didn’t know what words could possibly make things right. Sternness made him seem cold and hard beyond description; while any attempt at warmth was met with suspicion.

 _I was never meant to father sons,_ he thought ruefully. Patsy had always been better at divining the intent behind his words, and forgiving any awkwardness in their expression.

If he could not speak his heart, he could at least act in accordance with its desires. “First of all, are you hurt?” _Did he hurt you?_ But he couldn’t say that; what if the answer was yes and there was absolutely nothing George could do about it?

Alexander shook his head, his dark eyes impossibly huge. “No, sir.” But he looked away as he said it.

George’s stomach turned. “Come on then, love, let’s get you out of those wet clothes.” He moved as if to peel the boy out of his shirt—he’d foregone his jacket, no wonder he was freezing—and Alexander reared back like a spooked colt.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, _damn. Hamilton’s terrified of you,_ Arnold had said, but it wasn’t until now that George understood what he meant. “Alexander, I just want to help you undress, that’s all. Will you let me do that?”

“C’n do it myself,” he mumbled, his numb fingers struggling with the fastenings on the shirt.

“I know you can, love, but it will go much faster if we work together. I won’t have you catch a chill, now. May I take your boots?”

“Yes, sir,” said Alexander, somehow managing to convey _only if you must._

George found he must. He pried the right boot off and noticed how it pinched the boy’s toes, and the scuff marks on the faded leather. Alexander was wearing his old boots, the ones that were too small for him, not the ones George had had made to his measurements before they left. In fact, all his clothes were his elder brother’s cast-offs. The shirt was both too big and yellowed with use; the pants torn and frayed in several different spots. George hadn’t even realized he had brought those clothes with him.

 _Is that how much you despise me?_ wondered George. _You wouldn’t even let me leave that negligible mark on you?_  He made quick work of the other boot, and Alexander didn’t protest further when George stripped him of the rest of it and began to dry him with the closest thing to hand, one of his own shirts. Some of the bluish tinge left his skin, and the shaking lessened but didn’t stop, not even when they got him into his proper clothes again. George inspected him, furtively, for new bruises; finding none, he allowed himself to relax a fraction. But not all injuries could be seen.

“All right, young man.” He pointed to the bed. “Under the blankets with you.”

Alexander’s brow furrowed. “Sir…”

George had no patience left for this recalcitrance. “Right now.”

The boy was going to learn to do as he was told, when he was told to do it. Clearly he was incapable of deciding what was good for him, so George would have to force him to accede to his father’s judgment as any child of his age ought to do. George had made the mistake of assuming that just because the boy had a man’s bearing— _and why is that, Rachel, what did you let happen to him that he acts so much older than his years?_ —that he had a man’s wisdom, too. That was…very much not the case.

Alexander obeyed, though he dragged his feet. _Oh, yes, indentured servitude would have suited your disposition so well,_ thought George snidely. _There’s absolutely no way that would have gone wrong for you._ He managed not to express the sentiment aloud…it was unworthy.

“You’re to stay there until you’ve warmed up a little, Alexander,” he said. He tried—oh, how hard he tried—to strike a balance between authority and kindness, the way he imagined all good fathers must. _You will do exactly as I say, and you will always be safe while you do it._

Alexander regarded him with a dubious expression, and George knew himself keenly lacking—his own father, he believed, would have known what to do if he’d lived, or Lawrence. But they were gone and the boy had only George, only George in all the world, not his mother or elder brother or the man he’d called father, and that struck George as horribly unfair. Alexander should have more, should have _better,_ should have the world.

Alexander’s knuckles turned white from gripping the blankets so hard. “Sir, please, I beg you to hear my apology, though I know it cannot possibly be sufficient…”

George sighed. His anger had the force of a living thing, a third creature in the room with them demanding satisfaction. But Alexander didn’t need that; he needed rest and guidance and certainty, and George needed Alexander, so he leashed it. “Son,” he began, “the important thing right now is that you’re safe…”

“No!” Alexander interrupted. “Sir, my behavior was selfish and injurious in the extreme. I thought I was helping but I see now that the way I went about it only caused damage to you who have been nothing but kind to me, which was the last thing I ever wanted, and I am so, so sorry, I should never have done it.”

George’s shoulders sagged in relief. At least the boy was beginning to understand. He wanted so badly to scold, to make damn well sure Alexander never dared run away again, but perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary. “It is good that you know you were in error, Alexander. Errors once acknowledged are more than half amended.”

Alexander visibly brightened. “That’s true. We can still fix this, can’t we, sir?”

 _It’s fixed,_ he wanted to say; _it’s over._ But it had been so close, and the only reason his life wasn’t in ashes was Benedict Arnold’s mercy, and they had so far to go. “Of course we can.” Thank God that was still true, thank God Alexander’s catastrophic error in judgment hadn’t been irreversible, thank God George had kept his temper.

“That’s good,” he said. “I am…so glad, sir.” His eyes welled up with tears, and George went to him to wipe them away, to hold him and kiss his forehead and tell him everything would be all right somehow, George would make certain of that.

“So as I was saying,” Alexander choked out, “I should never have gone about it the way I did. I should never have signed the contract while we were still on the ship.”

George froze. “What did you say?”

“Obviously the right way to do it would have been to tell Mr. Arnold to wait, but I thought you would want me out from underfoot as soon as possible so I did things too soon and now people _know_ , people know about me, sir you have to believe me I never meant to destroy your reputation like this…”

He had to find a way to stem this tide of words, but he was helpless before it. “Good God, Alexander—“

“But I’m sure there will be other merchants at port who could put me on one of their ships and find a use for me. They wouldn’t be as kind to me as Mr. Arnold was, maybe, but I’d manage, and you could make sure I’m sent somewhere I’d never trouble you, and if anyone asks you can say I died of a fever or something, lots of people get sick at sea, it’s plausible, but I don’t think many people will ask, sir, you can go on as if the whole thing never happened—“

“Alex, stop this.”

“I didn’t understand what was going on at first, but now I do, if you didn’t know it makes sense, you’re a man of honor and you thought you had to come, and then when Maman turned out to be dead you felt you had no other choice, but if you help me negotiate terms this time you can be compensated and it will all work out for the best—“

“Alexander, I love you.”

That stopped his monologue, as George had known it would; his jaw snapped shut. He took one shallow, ragged breath, then another. “But…”

“No. No buts, and no more of this nonsense. I love you, and I want you, and you are staying with me. That’s all.” _Didn’t he hear a word I said to Arnold?_ But he clearly hadn’t, not in any way that mattered.

“What if I don’t want you?” he asked, shakily, after a few agonizing instants in which he gaped at George as though he’d grown another head.

George’s heart sank, but then he saw how wide Alexander’s eyes still were, how he was still holding onto the blankets for dear life. This was a test, and there was only one possible answer. “I would understand, for all it would pain me, but in the end it would make no difference. You may not be my son, Alexander, but I _am_ your father. Do you understand?”

“I think so, sir,” he said, but his tone was skeptical.

Considering that the boy seemed to speak a bizarre dialect of English in which _love_ meant _debt_ and _safe_ meant _trapped,_ it was probably best to check. “What did I say?”

“You’re…keeping me.”

 _And that’s the best I’ll get from him, for now._ George pried the blanket from Alexander’s hands and drew it up to his neck. Then, careful to move slowly so the boy could see what he was doing, he brushed a stray lock of hair from his son’s forehead. Alexander didn’t flinch away.

“Always, son.”


	5. please don't leave me (i am helpless)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as usual, to Scio for reassuring me this is not complete garbage.

It was good, thought George, that he had managed not to give in to his anger, with either Arnold or Alex; his son was still so uncertain that it would have done him no good. Calm was what the boy needed, and so George would do his best to maintain it. He must be Alexander's bulwark, his shelter from the storm-tossed seas of fortune; firm and constant as stone.

No matter that he didn't think he'd felt a moment's peace since Martha turned to him with a faintly puzzled expression and said,  _ oh, I almost forgot, dear, you've a letter from St. Croix, from a Mrs. Hamilton. Where is that, anyway? Do we know any Hamiltons? I can't recall. _ His own soul had been thrown into such turmoil with the advent of Alexander that at times it seemed he scarcely knew who he was anymore. The master of Mount Vernon; the veteran; the politician, all faded into irrelevance beside the role he must now assume. Only his love of Martha and her children remained constant, as foremost in his mind as ever. Unlike all his other pursuits, his domestic satisfaction only grew with the years, his contentment ever greater.

George all of a sudden wished very much his family were here, no matter that he would never willingly expose them to such danger as he and Alexander faced on this journey. Martha's unfailing warmth was just what Alexander needed. Jacky would make him smile; teach him not to take himself so seriously. Patsy by contrast would take him seriously always. She would listen to him, accept him without judgment as she did all the family.

_ It will be better, love, when we are all together, the five of us, the way we should be. _ He wanted to say so, but there was no way Alexander would be as cheered by that as he was, so he held his peace.

"Are you feeling any warmer, Alex?" he asked instead.

Alexander's quick glance up at him was almost trepidatious; as though George were his schoolmaster who had caught him in a moment of inattention. "I'm fine, sir. You don't need to worry about me."

Considering that the last time Alexander had said he was fine he'd been clinging to the ship's mast by his fingernails, George failed to be reassured. "I do need to worry about you," George said. "It's an absolute requirement of my position."

Alexander's brow furrowed, and George thought he might have overstepped. "Don't you know?" he said gravely, attempting to mask the vehemence of his feelings. "It's in the conduct manual we're given when we become fathers. All fathers must worry about whether our children are warm enough at all times. We must apply ourselves to this task with unceasing diligence. It's in the rules."

"That sounds most tiresome, sir," Alexander said, but George saw he was trying not to smile.

_ Terrifying  _ was nearer the mark— _ I have failed him so badly for so long, I must not let it happen again— _ but he couldn't say so to Alexander. "I assure you I would have it no other way."

"Yes," said Alex. "You like rules, don't you."

It was not quite an accusation. Alexander attempted to keep his voice light, as though he were asking a meaningless question about George's preferences, such as what vintage of wine he favored. But George could tell there was more to it than that. "Whatever do you mean, Alex?" In that dialect of his, what did  _ rules  _ signify? Were they chains? Or something else?

George recognized the petulant press of Alexander's lips as his mouth twisted in dissatisfaction. In that moment he didn't look like George or Rachel or even Lawrence. Instead, George's mother peered out of his son's eyes, which had assumed the particular countenance she had when George failed to live up to her idea of what a son should be, as though she had to rewrite her image of the world every time he disappointed her. But where that look from his mother moved him to anger, made him lash out, from Alex it inspired only tenderness and the burning need to protect and defend, to improve himself so Alexander would never have reason to regret sharing his blood.  _ It's not an easy legacy I've bequeathed to you, dear heart. _

"You like it," Alexander explained, "when everyone does what they're supposed to do. You like to do things right. Properly, I mean, but…you like to do the right thing too. Because it's the right thing. Don't you, sir?"

_ If only,  _ thought George,  _ I had the slightest idea how.  _ "Inasmuch as I know what that is, yes."

"Sir," Alexander said. His voice cracked. "What am I supposed to do?"

_ Not what you have been doing today, certainly.  _ But he wouldn't be cruel to the boy. "You're supposed to do as I say, Alexander, and let me take care of you so I can get you safely home where you belong."

"Home," said Alexander, sounding dubious about the prospect. "Mount Vernon, in Virginia Colony."

George once more had the sense of being a schoolmaster listening to a dutifully memorized lesson. For Alexander that was all it could be, of course; a phrase recited by rote. "That's right, son."  _ It will be his when I am gone.  _ George had already decided as much; Jacky's estate dwarfed his own, and Patsy, if she lived long enough— _ please, God— _ would be the mistress of another one appropriate to her consequence. George's estate could go to George's son; there was no one on earth with a better right to it.

Alexander might have asked another question, but just then his stomach announced its discontent with a loud growl. Alex's cheeks flushed and the corners of his mouth bowed into a frown, like he was put out that his body would dare to have needs, and he turned his back to George, curling up on himself.

George couldn't have that. "Look at me, Alexander." He waited for the boy to obey; when he did his guilty, furtive stare broke George's heart. "When was the last time you ate, son?"

"Oh, Mr. Arnold gave me breakfast!" said Alexander with a brightness so pronounced George instantly knew it false. "I don't know why my stomach is making noise; I'm not even the slightest bit hungry, how silly of it."

It was clearly a pack of lies, and moreover it was the strangest pack of lies George had ever heard, for there was no reason for Alexander to use them. "Try again, Alexander."

Alexander shot him a look of injured innocence so adept George almost apologized, but then he remembered how Alex tended to look when he really had done nothing wrong—trapped, as though no explanation he could give George for his conduct could ever vindicate him. "I had breakfast, sir."

_ God in heaven, child, I just want to help you.  _ "You want rules, Alexander? Here's one for you: Don't you dare lie to me. Not ever, not for any reason, and  _ especially  _ not about the state of your own health. Do I make myself clear?"

Alexander gave a frantic nod, and swallowed. "I-I wanted to eat last night but I was worried you'd...but I wasn't hungry anyway, sir, it was fine--"

_ You were worried I would what?  _ "Alexander."

"And then this morning I didn't want anyone to see me in such a lowly state, and Mr. Arnold said I was of no use to anyone if I let myself wither away and I would get used to it soon enough but he'd indulge me this one time."

George felt his hand curl into a fist. "Answer the question, Alexander. Now."

"Yesterday morning, sir, with you."

To every challenge, thought George, there were constructive and useful responses. Then there were the kind that would do no good at all. Like punching a wall, or shaking his child until sense miraculously manifested in his mind, or curling up in a ball to weep. "Thank you, Alexander. I'll get you something now."

Alexander cast his blankets off and sat up. "I can fetch it for us both, sir, don't trouble yourself."

George held up a hand. He refused to feel ashamed at Alexander's answering flinch.  _ Whatever happened to him, I did none of it.  _ But that wasn't true; was it…his negligence had been the cause of it all, even though he was ignorant. Perhaps it was that knowledge that made his voice cold. "You can stay there the way I told you to, boy. Don't move from that spot." Perhaps, he thought, he ought to take Alexander with him…but no, that was absurd; George was no nervous mother hen, and this would serve as a fine test of whether Alexander was capable of obedience at all.

Even so, letting Alexander out of his sight caused an almost physical ache, a tightness in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. When Jacky was small, Martha had tried to test her mettle, to see if she could spend the night away from him. She had failed miserably, returning to the house within hours, a sobbing mass of anxieties. George had tried to be gentle with her, but had been unable to mask the simple truth that he found her fears silly, a woman's nervous fantasy, and it had turned into one of the few great quarrels of their marriage.

When George got home, one thing was certain: he owed his wife an abject apology.

He begged their fare from the ship's galley with a sheepish half-smile; Cook's answering grunt made it quite clear that, had George asked to bring food back to his berth for himself alone, he would have been refused, and it was solely for Alexander's sake that Cook consented to this unheard-of irregularity in the schedule. George thanked the man for his kindness and patience toward his son, who deserved his repose after the morning he'd had.

"Perhaps you ought to display those virtues yourself, sir," said the man with a scowl. "Maybe then he wouldn't try to run."

_ And perhaps, if one of you had told me he was trying to run, we could have avoided this whole sorry episode.  _ George gritted his teeth. "I thank you for your counsel, sir, and shall receive it in the spirit it was doubtless meant."

George took his leave in short order, filching a piece of salt pork from the tray Cook had offered him and swallowing it with a grimace. He would just as soon never again taste salt pork in his life.  _ I must remember to thank Mother for not letting me go to sea as a lad,  _ he thought. He was not fit for a sailor's life, and vastly preferred the comforts of land.

Soon, he told himself, they would be home at Mount Vernon, where there was space enough for a boy to put down roots, to grow to manhood. They had already made the greater part of the journey. All George had to do was get them through the next few days and all would be well.

_ I must never be away so long again,  _ he thought, but he knew that he would have endured a much harsher voyage for such treasure as he carried with him.

His treasure was fast asleep on their narrow bed, limbs splayed across it as if he'd found the effort of sitting up exhausting and had simply fallen over, unable to hold himself up any longer.

"Alexander?" he said, alarmed. "Are you unwell?"

The boy's eyes snapped open. For a terrifying moment they seemed unable to focus, and then he sat bolt upright, gaze fixed on George. "Forgive me, sir!" he cried out, all traces of sleep vanished from his voice.

"Whatever for, Alex?"

"I moved," the boy explained earnestly. "You said not to. I'm really sorry."

George would think this must be a farce, had the boy not plainly meant every word he said. "Oh, Alexander," said George. "I didn't mean for you to hold yourself like a statue. I meant for you to stay in bed where you'd be warm, and so you did. Are you feeling all right? It's not like you to fall asleep in the middle of the day." It wasn't like him to fall asleep so quickly at all, and George could not help but worry.

"I'm fine, sir," he said again, rubbing at his eyes. "I was…apprehensive, last night, about what the day would bring, and so I didn't sleep much."

_ Why didn't you tell me, boy, so I could put an end to it?  _ But there was no profit in that line of inquiry. "Understandable, to be sure," said George, voice carefully neutral. "Eat your food now, before it gets cold, then you may rest awhile." George normally disapproved of lying abed during the day, as he didn't want the boy awake all hours of the night, but as the morning's events proved, there were far worse things Alexander could do than rest.

If Alexander's appetite was perhaps not what it should be for a growing boy who hadn't eaten since the previous morning, nor was it nonexistent, and George's fears receded a little. "Sleep now," George said, after the boy's third yawn, and he knew Alexander was truly exhausted when he made not even a token protest.

"Thank you, sir," he said instead as George tucked him in once more, using the movement as an excuse to let his hand brush against Alexander's forehead. No fever, thank God. "For…for taking me back."

"There was never any question of that, Alexander."

The boy didn't protest that, either, letting his eyes fall closed, and George thought perhaps he might almost believe it.


	6. if you take your time, you will make your mark (close your eyes and dream when the night gets dark)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted here that Fig tree (and its mirror the Aegisverse) have Alexander's birth as taking place in 1757, even though I personally believe 1755 is more likely. This fits better with the story I want to tell.
> 
> Thanks to the usual suspects, and to all of you for reading and commenting! I appreciate it more than I can say.
> 
> And Happy Father's Day!

While Alexander slept, George busied himself with tidying the cabin, clearing away the breakfast things and hanging Alexander's ruined clothes to dry. A small, petty part of him wanted to throw the castoff clothes over the ship's railing, but he didn't want the rest of the passengers and crew to be witness to such dramatics. He would not give them more reason to snicker at him behind their hands, or pity Alexander for being bound to him.

The desk he saved for last. Alexander's estimate of their expenses was, as he'd expected, as precise and accurate as any clerk's, with one glaring omission: George's passage to St. Croix was unaccounted for. George didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry at the oversight.

 _Oh, my brilliant boy,_ he thought. _You are a child still._ George felt oddly reassured that Alexander was still capable of such thoughtlessness, that even in the midst of his self-abnegation he never considered whether there might be anything beyond what concerned his own person.

He folded the papers, and Alex's letter, which he could not bring himself to read again for fear it would utterly destroy the façade of calm he'd presented to the boy all day, and put them in the pocket of his greatcoat next to the missives from Rachel he had used to claim Alexander from his relatives. He would keep them as a reminder that Alex was not the only one in the family who could be oblivious, who could miss important things.

The weight of what had almost happened, the probable depth of the disaster that could have cost him Alexander forever, hit George full-force then, and he had to sit down before his knees gave out. _What did he sign?_ George was glad he didn't know, for he could see it in his mind's eye, Alexander reading the terms Arnold set out for him so carefully, so certain he didn't miss anything; while blind to the most important thing of all—that he didn't have to do any of this. Alexander signing his name with a flourish, trying not to let the pen shake. Alexander shaking Arnold's hand thinking he was a businessman concluding a bargain, not a child being taken from his loving parent for God alone knew what purpose….

He hadn't realized, until seeing the rows upon rows of careful figures, what a liability Alexander's brilliance could be. In terms of sheer intelligence George could not compete, nor would he wish to…it was privilege enough to watch the workings of his son's mind. But the boy knew how smart he was, which meant he had no idea how unwise he could be, how poor his judgment.

It would fall to George to teach him prudence, to protect him not only from the world but from his own defects of understanding. And for the first time since meeting Alexander at the docks in St. Croix, where he'd been the first person George saw as he stepped off the ship, George didn't know if he were equal to the task. That day he'd felt Providence with him, guiding him to Alexander as though his life had led to this very moment, where his son could be at his side. He had never questioned the fundamental rightness of that…of course Alex had been there, waiting for George to come to him. Where else would he be? What else could George do but take him home?

George did not pray, not often. But he could not help but question the wisdom of that guiding hand, if a guiding hand it was. _Why would You give me this boy, of all the sons that could have come of my blood? Why would You hurt him so badly it may be too late for me to reach him?_

Alexander stirred, turning over in the bed and making a noise halfway between a grunt and a moan. George went to him, brushing back the stray curl that had somehow ended up in the boy's mouth. Alexander struggled to open his eyes.

"S-sir?"

"Shhh, dear heart, sleep more, you need it."

"I'm not…" But what the boy was not was unintelligible to George, for he babbled in something that might have been French or might have been a language previously unknown to mankind.

 _Very well,_ George thought at Providence, as the boy lapsed into quiet. _Without me there would be no one, so better a flawed instrument than none. Only please show me how I can best care for him. Please let him learn to heed me. Please._

When Alexander woke again, George thought his plea was answered. Alex's lethargy seemed banished by the brief rest. He spoke not a word, but he was willing enough to stay within George's sight and read quietly, for which George was grateful. In return, George left him to his studies and his thoughts, did not attempt to discern what on earth the boy had been thinking with his foolish stunt, and tried his very best to stay calm.

That lasted until Alexander, having been coaxed into eating his supper, set aside his books, rose from his chair, and regarded George with a puzzled expression. He drew back his shoulders, as if marshaling his courage, and twisted his hands in front of himself, unable to keep them still. George had to stop himself from enfolding the tiny palms in his own. "Sir," Alexander began, "may I ask a question?"

A remnant of prudence kept George from answering _always;_ he didn't want to open that door, knowing if he did there was no chance of closing it again. "Of course, Alexander." He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, though the formality of the boy's posture seemed to call for him to stand as well; he didn't want Alexander to feel George looming threateningly over him. _I must persuade him it is safe to trust me. All my hopes will come to naught if I fail in this._

"Sir," said Alexander, quiet, tense, _scared,_ "why did you tell Mr. Arnold you would give him anything for me?"

Ah. He could use this, he thought, he could teach Alex how much the boy meant to him. The most desperate part of him almost wished Benedict Arnold had pressed for advantage, had demanded George pay some absurd sum just so he could have said, _yes, sir, thank you, sir, for my son 'tis but a pittance._ So Alexander could have heard him say those words.

"Because it is the truth, son."

"That may be, sir," said Alexander with the sort of exaggerated patience one used for the slow of wit, "but why would you say so?"

He knew what Alex was driving at and he didn't like it. But how to answer? _I backed us into a corner and this was the quickest way to get out of it_ , was probably the most honest answer, but would hardly impart the desired lesson to Alexander. _I would humble myself to a far greater degree for your sake_ wouldn't calm the boy's fear, no matter how George knew it to be true.

"Had to get you back, didn't I," he said.

Alexander looked as though he wished to argue with that. "But the way you went about it, I must say, sir, was extremely foolish."

George counted to five silently. Took a deep breath, let it out through his nostrils. "Foolish."

Alexander's hands did not still. Unfortunately, neither did his voice. "Perhaps that was poorly put, sir, but surely you can at least admit that you didn't think things through. That you did not fully comprehend the consequences of your actions. Can we agree on that much, sir?"

"You think _I_ didn't understand the consequences of _my actions."_ He couldn't believe this child.

"He could have demanded anything from you, sir! You would have had no recourse. I understand you wish to keep me, sir, though I cannot see why—"

"Alex."

"But I must ask you never to take such a risk for my sake, not again, it's not worth it, sir.”

"Alexander." His breath came quick and sharp, suffused once more with the morning's panic. _Calm,_ he reminded himself for the hundredth time. _He's safe; he's with you._ But George realized something then, something that scared him more than combat ever had: Alexander Washington would never be safe, not while he set so little store by his own worth. That reckless brilliance was the sort that got noticed, and it would eventually be noticed by someone with fewer scruples than Benedict Arnold had proven to possess. And as long as the boy saw himself only as a tool to be used by others…. "I will make no such promise, _ever._ Do not ask again."

"But Colonel, sir…"

George couldn't stop himself then; the words spewed from him, sharp and jagged. "Do you have _any idea_ what almost happened to you this morning? How _breathtakingly stupid_ you were?"

He had gone too far. He knew it even as the words left his mouth, and yet he couldn't seem to be silent. A distracted, detached part of him, watching his own actions with a kind of bemused horror, wondered: _is this what it's like for him all the time?_

Alexander's cheeks flushed a dull, deep red. He stood on tiptoe, fists balled in front of him like he wanted to throw a punch at George, which George had no doubt was true. "Don't call me stupid," he whispered, as though too enraged to speak at full volume. "I'm _not stupid."_

A better man, a competent father, would have backtracked at once. George knew this to be true, but when he opened his mouth to apologize, more tongue-lashing came out instead. "You certainly aren't," he said, "which only makes your behavior even more inexcusable. A young man of your intelligence has no reason to throw his life away, and for what, Alexander? So you wouldn't have to face me?"

"I was not throwing my life away, that's ridiculous." Alexander spoke through gritted teeth, a clenched jaw. He looked more furious and less afraid than George had ever seen him. "If you had bothered to give careful attention to my explanatory letter, sir—"

A disbelieving laugh escaped George's throat. "You may be assured, Alexander, that I _paid attention to your letter._ In fact, I don't think I will ever forget a word of it."

"Then you will know that I was only trying to make a place for myself, as so many have done before me. Why is that wrong?"

 _You have a place,_ George thought. _It's with me, as it always should have been._ "And what sort of place do you imagine for yourself, son? Chained in a hold next to other unfortunates and cast-offs, with a heel of stale bread for your week's ration, your companions dying of fever around you?"

"Mr. Arnold would not have done that," Alexander said. He sounded certain, but he stood back on his heels again, and his hands dropped to his sides, and his voice got very, very quiet.

George was not prepared to let him off easily, even if he wanted to. "How do you know? Was there anything in your contract that precluded your service being sold?"

Alexander looked away, and bit his lip so hard George wondered if it would bleed. "Noooo," he said after a moment, "but he wouldn't have done it like that. I know he wouldn't. He said he'd hold onto me until he found somewhere I could be useful." His voice cracked, a little, on that last word.

 _Why do you trust Benedict Arnold's word, but not mine?_ But that did not matter; George was Alexander's father, and it was his duty to instruct him. _This behavior is unworthy,_ he admonished himself. _Control your temper._ "Let us say you are right. What use do you imagine you would have been put to, Alexander?"

Alexander's eyes snapped back to him, furiously bright. "I know you do not think so, sir, but I am very capable, I can work!"

"Alexander, you are eleven years old."

"I can pass for thirteen," said the boy, outraged. "I did it before, it's how I got a clerk's job. I was really good at it."

 _How on earth did anyone ever believe he was thirteen?_ He didn't even look his age. But George knew it was the confidence, the self-possession no child should rightfully have. "That's not the point, Alexander. The point is that you should be in _school,_ not used as a laborer until you break. And it _would_ break you, make no mistake."

Alexander's bitter laugh didn't sound like anything that could come out of an eleven-year-old's mouth, or a thirteen-year-old's. "And what school would have me, sir?"

 _What are you talking about?_ "No child of mine will forfeit his education, Alexander, nor be permitted to waste himself as a field hand."

"It wouldn't have been a waste, sir! I had a plan! I would have paid off the indenture really soon, and then after that I would have paid you, I promise I would have. I will even now."

"You will do nothing of the sort!" George snapped, the flames of his rage stoked once more.  "Your passage is already paid, Alexander, there is no need for you to put yourself further in debt, not to anyone. You are my _son,_ my responsibility, you owe me _nothing."_

"Then let me go," Alexander said immediately. "When we get into port. Let me make my own way. I don't want to stay with you."

George didn't even have to think about his response to that proposition. "No."

"Why not, sir? If there's truly no obligation between us, then you should have no problem with it."

"I did not say there was no obligation between us. I said you owe me nothing."

"Ah," said Alexander, as sharp as a hound who had scented his prey and was closing in.  "Then it is duty alone that makes you think you need to keep me. I had wondered." He tried to speak quietly and without inflection, but George saw his lip tremble.

"Alexander. Don't twist my words. That is not true and you know it."

"Whatever debt you think you owe me, or the memory of—of my m-mother, I release you from it. You are free, sir."

 _I do not wish to be free of you,_ George thought. _Not ever._ "Alexander, that's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?" Alexander half-shrieked. "Please, sir, just tell me, I can't…at least with Mr. Arnold I knew his terms."

"Oh, for the love of…terms? _Terms?_ "

"Yes, sir, why won't you tell me what they are? Am I…"

"You want terms, Alexander? Of my continued provision for you? Very well, then. Set them."

Alexander paused. "What do you mean, sir?"

George almost took it back. It was ridiculous, he thought, that he should need to resort to this to take care of his son. But there was something in Alex's demeanor, an intent focus he hadn't bestowed upon George since before this whole mess with Arnold, or perhaps ever. Alexander, he realized, was _listening_ to him.

 _Do not ruin this,_ he told himself. _You cannot._ He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. "I want you to stay with me, Alexander. Under what circumstances would you find that acceptable? You need only name them. Or write them down, if you wish, if that grants you added peace of mind. I'll sign anything you like. We probably couldn't have witnesses, but you've said you trust my honor and I know I trust yours."

"I do, sir," said Alexander earnestly. "You are proposing…a negotiation, of sorts, then. An exchange of mutual benefit."

"Yes," said George, unaccountably relieved that he seemed to have found a language, at last, that Alexander understood. "Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

"What if we can't come to a satisfactory agreement?" There was no accusation in the boy's question, or fear, either. He just…wanted to know.

George swallowed. "If we both bargain in good faith, I do not think that will happen. I am…accustomed to doing what it takes to get what I want. I believe we are alike in that."

Alexander looked skeptical, and George hurriedly added, "Besides, these agreements have…time limits. Points after which the terms are revisited, and renegotiated if need be. We can put one in, if you wish."

Alexander stiffened. "You are humoring me, sir, and I do not appreciate it."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm offering you a condition of your continuing to reside with me. Is it acceptable? We can revisit this in, say, a year?" By which time he hoped the boy would have forgotten all about it.

Alexander must have seen his secret hope in his face, for he shook his head vehemently. "That's too long. We can renegotiate when we get to Virginia."

"By that time we will barely have set the terms in the first place. Three months, then. A season. Surely you can put up with me for at least a season."

"That is...acceptable, sir." He sat down at the desk again, got out paper and ink. "I'll write as we go, sir. I used to do this for Mr. Cruger."

What followed was the most bizarre negotiation of George's life, as for the first time the welfare of the other person at the table mattered far more to him than his own. In fact, they were synonymous, but the trick was to do it so that Alexander didn't realize he believed that. First Alexander would not state his own terms without hearing what George absolutely required before he would sign anything.

"I told you," said George. "I will accept whatever terms you set."

"Fine," Alexander snapped. "I want you to let me go when we reach port, and I also want a year's worth of your estate's income so that I can establish myself, and ship's passage for my brother to join me in the colonies."

"…point taken," George conceded. "Alexander, I've told you, young James can come to us whenever he wishes. I told both of you before we left and I'll write him again when we get home, and as many times thereafter as needed." George felt a pang at the thought of leaving Rachel's boy, a baby George had dandled on his knee the way he had never gotten to do with his own son, behind forever. _I should have done more for him. I should do more for him._

"Jamie would never come to _you,"_ said Alexander scornfully. "He might come to me."

"Perhaps that's so," George said, "but in any case, we can put a clause in that says I will pay his passage, whenever he wants it."

"As long as I stay with you," Alexander said.

George quashed the sneaky voice in his head that said Alexander had just offered him an easy way to get exactly what he wanted. "No, love, all you or he need do is write me, from wherever you are, and I will make the arrangements."

"Oh," said Alexander. "Sir, you would…you would really do that for us?"

 _For you,_ thought George. "I would. I will. I promise."

Alexander's smile was the most brilliant, shining thing George had ever seen, and made all the day's trials worth it. "Oh, sir, I don't know how to thank you…"

"Thank me by writing it down," George interjected, before Alexander could start in on any nonsense about paying George back for both his passage and young James's. "As for the terms I must have…Alexander, you know that what we are doing, this sea voyage, is very dangerous, yes?"

"Yes, sir," said Alexander, exasperated. "I grew up in the Caribbean. I do, in fact, know that ships sink."

George forbore from reprimanding him for impertinence. "What I need from you, then, Alexander, is your word that you will obey me, when I tell you to do something. I have left you to your own devices for much of this journey, but when I tell you to stay away from the railing, or come back for supper, or _get out of the rigging,_ I must know you will do as I say."

"Actually, sir, I was perfectly fine in the rigging…"

"Alexander."

The boy sighed. "Very well, sir," he said with the air of one granting a great concession. "I'll obey."

"Thank you, son."

"Is there anything else you must have of me, sir?"

"One thing," George decided. "Alexander, I have no wish to keep you prisoner, nor trap you somewhere you do not wish to be. But…when you grow older, and make your own way in the world. If you're offered employment, say, or an apprenticeship or…I want you to come to me, first. Let me help you with the terms, or make you a counter-offer if I do not think them suitable. But please don't run off again."

Alexander considered. "Why should I wait until I'm older? Lots of boys my age go to work, it's not…there's no shame in it, surely."

George remembered, suddenly, another boy of eleven, eager to go to sea and make his mark. _You're still a child,_ his mother had said. _What's the harm in staying a child a little longer?_ He hadn’t listened, of course. They never did.

"They do," he said gently. "But their fathers help them, and make sure they're not being unfairly used." It was why George had been so certain Benedict Arnold had been up to no good. Anyone who wished to take a boy in service would surely obtain the permission of his parent, if the service were honorable.

"I suppose…I suppose that's prudent, sir," said Alexander after a moment. "Very well. I agree not to leave without consulting you."

George's sheer relief must have been apparent, for Alexander turned away at once and began scribbling furiously. "About the cost of my maintenance, sir."

George, naïve fool that he was, thought Alexander was about to haggle him for pocket money. If only. No, Alexander wanted to spell out the cost of everything he would need, from books to clothes to his food.

"It's only practical, sir," explained Alexander. "After all, imagine if you had procured my indenture, after we landed."

George would gladly pay him a substantial wage never to mention the word _indenture_ in relation to himself as long as he lived. But Alexander would not abandon the point.

"Surely you have made such purchases before, sir," Alexander said. "You must make a determination, then. Of how much it will cost to provide for them, set against the value their labor will bring your estate."

"I am not going to treat you like one of my laborers, Alex. Why don't we just agree that I will provide you with whatever you need?"

Alexander shrugged. "All the more reason to set things down, then, sir, wouldn't you agree? Use your free servants as your starting point and then determine how much more you are willing to give me. Though really, I bet I don't cost very much. I don't need a lot of food. How much would you pay, sir, for someone like me?"

George looked at him. Really looked at him, and couldn't help appraising him like the gentleman farmer, the _master,_ he was.

The answer, of course, was that he would not. And not because of any scruples, either, no matter how much he wished that were true. No, he would not buy a child that small, that frail, without his parents. It was not a good investment. Such children did not last the year on a plantation, and the people who procured their service knew that, and did not care. There would always be more orphans, after all.

Bile rose burning hot in his throat, and George swallowed it back. Forced himself to meet his son's eyes, Rachel's luminous dark eyes, and acknowledge to himself he would have found no value in them.

_He'd have died. I would have left him to die._

"Sir, are you quite well?"

"Actually," he said, voice tear-roughened, "I find myself growing fatigued. It has been…an eventful day. May we conclude this tomorrow? It's always best to sleep on this sort of thing."

"Of course, sir!" said Alexander, all careful solicitude. "You should have said."

He expected Alexander to lie awake, tense against George's back, but to his surprise the boy went limp and boneless almost immediately after getting into bed. George, who had not gotten to where he was in life by letting opportunities pass him by, pulled the sleeping child into his arms.

He'd never been one for declarations of sentiment, preferring to let his actions speak for themselves. But after Alexander had spent such time hammering out such a pittance as this contract, George felt the need to make his true promise, even if the boy couldn't hear it and wouldn't believe it.

"You are safe now, my heart, and one day you will know it," he whispered. "I have waited my whole life for you. I will wait as long as you need."

And if that was the rest of his life, so be it. Alexander would be alive, and as safe as George could make him, and that was the only thing that mattered and the only thing that ever would.

It was enough.


	7. you could remain as long as you're alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Scio and Tal, who made this a lot better than it was!

When Alexander woke, Colonel Washington was already up and dressed, with breakfast waiting for them on the small table.

"Thought I'd let you rest," he said in response to Alexander's unspoken question. "You had a very eventful day yesterday."

Alexander was hard-pressed not to blush. It was difficult not to take that as criticism of his conduct, after how badly he had misread everything yesterday. _Why did you have to cause all this trouble?_ he asked himself, for what seemed like the thousandth time. _It didn't have to happen. You could have just done as you were told and waited for him to leave you on his own, but noooo, not you, not Alexander Hamilton. Now he's going to hate you for what you made him do._

But the colonel didn't scold, at least not then. "When you're ready to get up, son, we can conclude our negotiations, if you wish."

Alexander hurriedly threw back the blankets and went to the washbasin. "I'm ready, sir." The tepid water shocked him to wakefulness, which was good. It wouldn't do for Colonel Washington to think him a laggard or a slob, not after how much effort the man had put into retrieving him. What kind of repayment would that be?

Alexander didn’t think he would ever forget how he’d felt, hearing the colonel call for him as he climbed through the rigging. He had to admit he’d considered the possibility that this might happen, all through the previous terror-filled night—the man had held him so gently, after all. He’d tried to tell Colonel Washington what he’d done— _sir I did something really stupid please help me fix it I’ll do anything_ —but as that would have caused the man further harm, he stayed silent. He thought that if he asked, Colonel Washington would spare him, would do his best to get him out of the contract because of the odd sense of obligation he seemed to feel, and Alexander could not bring himself to impose such a burden on the man. At least Alexander could have gotten out of a contract of indenture in time. He would never be able to repay Colonel Washington for his freedom.

Still. He had…wondered what it might be like. If the colonel, after a little while, decided he missed Alexander, would he ask Mr. Arnold for him back? Would he say, _excuse me, sir, but I’ve grown fond of the boy and wish to travel with him a while longer?_ Would he be mad at Alexander for causing him this trouble? Alexander hadn’t believed for a moment that it would happen, that he would be delivered, but he’d allowed himself to consider the possibility, the way he used to consider what the happy ending would look like in the fairy stories Maman told him when he was little.

And now he had it. He had the chance. _I must not throw it away. Not again,_ he thought as he quickly got himself dressed and got out his quill and inkpot.

The colonel's hand brushed his shoulder, not quite a rebuke. "Eat your breakfast first, before we do anything. You think better when you have a little something in your stomach."

Alexander had promised to obey, so he choked down the stale oatcake offered him. It did not escape his notice that the colonel barely touched his food, eating only a corner of an oatcake and drinking a few mouthfuls of watered-down grog before shoving his portion at Alexander in an unmistakable gesture of command.

"Aren't you hungry, sir?" he asked.

The colonel swallowed. There was a grayish tinge to his skin that worried Alexander—they had both suffered from seasickness, but that had mostly subsided, and normally it was Alexander who was the more affected of the two of them. "I ate most of mine while I waited for you, son."

And that made Alexander's back stiffen, for he'd heard that one before, from his mother. He knew what it really meant, even if Jamie had never figured it out. He'd heard the whispers of the crew-the ship was running low on provisions. Too low, for this point in the journey…an unexpected storm near the beginning of it had blown them off course and mildew had gotten into some of the food.

But why would Colonel Washington do this? Alexander had said he didn't need much food. Maybe the crew just wasn't dividing what was there equitably. Alexander had heard that happened on voyages like this, but he didn't believe it of Cook. It must just be a misunderstanding on everyone's part. He would have to see what he could do to clear it up.

"Are you feeling unwell, sir?" he let himself ask, afraid he was overstepping his bounds.

"I'm perfectly fine, Alexander."

Alexander had heard that one before too. But he forced himself not to respond, hunching over his plate and trying with all his might not to notice the way the colonel took out his handkerchief to mop away the sweat glistening on his brow, the way he gripped the table just a little too hard. The colonel obviously didn't want Alexander to notice those things, so he wouldn't.

"Are you ready, Alexander?" the colonel said once Alexander had forced himself to swallow a few more bites.

Alexander found it hard to meet the man's eyes. They were so full of _something…_ not quite hope, but the sort of look you got when you hardly dared to hope at all. Alexander thought his stomach might betray him and his breakfast would come up, for he didn't know how to answer what he saw in the colonel's eyes at all.

"Actually," he found himself saying, "may I go above, sir? There's…something I saw a sailor doing and I wanted to ask about it, and surely our negotiations will not suffer for a bit of a pause." He thought for certain there must be a false note in his voice, but if anything Colonel Washington's face softened.

"Of course, son," he said. "It's good that you're learning to take your time. I'm proud of you."

Alexander's breakfast really did almost come up at that, but he forced it down and excused himself from the table at once. He had nothing to feel guilty about. He really was taking his time, trying to make things go better for both of them, and surely that deserved praise.

He tried his best not to hurry, afraid that might give him away. He was doing nothing wrong, nothing that could cause Washington concern. Nothing that would warrant following him. But as he got up to the deck, he couldn’t help looking back to ensure the coast was clear. There was no sound from their berth, no movement towards him. Good. He could keep going.

Something had to be done, that much was clear. In order to make a deal, you had to understand the other party and what he wanted, and Alexander Hamilton didn't understand George Washington, not at all. The more study he made of the man, the less sense their interactions made. He needed help, for both their sakes. He needed to get away from Washington for a while so he could clear his head. He needed to review the evidence and draw a conclusion, from which he could know what he had to bargain with.

About the only thing he’d guessed right, in his long imagining of what the colonel might do to get him back, was that the colonel was mad. _Alexander Washington_ , he’d said, and Alexander’s body had tensed, the way anyone’s would when his parent called his full name and he knew he was in trouble. Which obviously was not the case here, as the colonel wasn’t his father and that wasn’t his name. And yet when it happened, he felt almost physically pulled to the man, as though he couldn’t help but come when called. He thought he should perhaps resent that…there was nothing real binding them together, after all. But he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t help betraying his given word and his real father and letting himself be picked up. Washington held him like…like Alexander was some lost jewel out of a legend, like he was afraid Alexander would be crushed if he held on too hard, but would vanish if he let go.

He didn’t understand it. People didn’t come back, not for Alexander. They stayed with him for a while, and then they went away. Not because they meant him any harm. He just wasn’t the sort of person someone stayed with, was all. But Washington had come back. And not only come back, but thrown his own reputation to the wolves to protect Alexander.

 _It’s not worth it,_ Alexander had wanted to say. How could it possibly be? He would have been fine with Mr. Arnold, until he wasn’t, and then he’d figure out something else. He always did.

It wasn’t until the night before, when Washington thought he was asleep, that things started to make a glimmer of sense. _I have waited my whole life for you_ , the man had said. Alexander tried to think of a thing he would wait his whole life for and couldn’t—if you wanted something that badly, why wouldn’t you just go out and get it?

But then he’d realized—Washington couldn’t, not and maintain his honor. Of course. The colonel had no children with his wife. He wanted an heir. That was the one thing his money couldn’t give him, and it was why he had answered Maman’s letter. Even a bastard, makeshift heir who probably wasn’t even his would do.

It moved Alexander to pity, and then anger. He could tell Colonel Washington was a good man and an honest one. It would be easy…far too easy…to take advantage of that, to prey upon his desire for a son. Was that what Alexander's mother had done?

 _Don’t think about that. Don’t think about her._ But there was a thought he couldn’t get rid of, once he’d had it…it scurried around his mind like the ship’s vermin, eating holes in everything, making the ground he stood on less solid. _Either she lied to him, or she lied to me._ And Dad and Jamie too…no wonder they hadn’t come with him. It was a wonder they had stayed with Alexander as long as they had, if…

But it must not be true. Just as he couldn’t think of a thing he would wait for that long, he couldn’t think of a lie he would be able to keep up for ten years. _My little open book_ , she’d called him. _Everything you feel I can read on your face. You must take care with that._

Surely she was the same. That was what she had always said, after all—that Jamie took after Dad, and Alexander after her. So it was Washington she had lied to. Alexander thought he ought to apologize on her behalf, for trapping him in this mess. But Washington seemed determined not to listen, as if by believing the lie hard enough he could somehow make it true. It would make Alexander sad if he didn’t also find it infuriating.

But Colonel Washington would figure out the truth soon enough, when he saw how unsuited Alexander was to be his heir. Then he would leave the way everybody did, and Alexander would be ready. The only thing he could do in the meantime was deal as honorably with the colonel as he knew how.

This decided, he felt more at peace than he had since Colonel Washington took his hand and led him up the gangplank and onto the _Necessity_. He couldn’t give Washington what he wanted. He couldn’t be the man’s son because it wasn’t true. But if he were honest, if he negotiated something that was mutually satisfactory, perhaps they could keep company for a time. _Maybe if I’m good I can stay._

But that was another fairy story. It wasn’t that Alexander doubted the colonel’s intentions. He clearly meant every word he said, or thought he did. But he was also smart. He would eventually see that Alexander’s mother had lied, that they weren’t family, that they were nothing alike, and when he did he’d realize that keeping Alexander wasn’t worth the cost, like everybody else did. Alexander had to be prepared for that day. He hadn’t been, before…not for Maman or Dad or Cousin Peter, or worst and most cruelly of all, Jamie. He couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.

He resolved to do his best, though, as he always had, and it was to that end that he went in search of Benedict Arnold. The colonel had said he ought to be more prudent, and upon reflection Alexander agreed. Mr. Cruger had always said it was foolish to rush into contracts before you’d thought the terms through, even if you feared you couldn’t get a better deal. And yet Alexander had done this immediately, forgetting all good sense. This time he’d do better. He wouldn’t let anyone take advantage of him, or of the colonel. He would be more prudent, and the prudent thing to do was undoubtedly to consult with someone he trusted about the terms before he signed anything.

He could not say he trusted Mr. Arnold. Not quite. But he was closer to trusting him than perhaps anyone else on the ship. Mr. Arnold at least didn’t condescend or treat him like a stupid child who didn’t know his own mind, the way some of the sailors did.

Until, it seemed, today. Alexander found Benedict Arnold hard at work, standing apart from the rest of the crew but just as busy as any of them, standing off to the side of the ship, which was all predictable. What wasn’t predictable was that Arnold barely looked up from his task as Alexander approached him, trying not to attract too much notice from the crew. He had a fishing net in his hands, and was dragging it through the foamy peaks in front of them with single-minded intensity Alexander admired. Alexander almost turned back—Arnold's muscles strained with his effort, which was obviously far more important than Alexander's trivial question. Alexander paused a moment, overtaken with an uncomfortable prickly feeling at the sight of Arnold’s chest muscles rippling as he worked. It was probably jealousy--if Alexander had to be short, couldn’t he at least be strong and sturdy in the same way?

After Alexander had spent far too long contemplating this, Arnold glanced back over his shoulder at him, not quite an invitation but enough of one for Alexander to creep forward over the deck so he was standing at Arnold's side. “Master Washington,” he said in a tone Alexander recognized, one he hated. It was the tone adults used with children who outranked them, rich visitors to the islands, officers’ brats who were useless for everything, but to whom they deferred because they had to and then mocked behind their hands. The fake-respectful tone his mother used with the brats who would come into the store, mess everything up, and call her names. “Shouldn’t you be with your father? He’d not approve of you wandering off.”

 _I’m not like that,_ Alexander wanted to say. _Yesterday you were teaching me how to tie knots. Why are you looking at me like I could hurt you_?

“I have permission,” Alexander said. It wasn’t even a lie, not really. He’d said he was going to ask one of the sailors something. Mr. Arnold was a sailor, even if not part of the crew. He’d told Alexander about the voyages he’d captained and everything. "I can help you fish if you'll let me, sir."

Bur Mr. Arnold laughed, which stung more than Alexander wanted to admit. "Your dad wouldn't like that one bit, my boy."

"He's not my dad," said Alexander, sullen.

Mr. Arnold glanced back at Alexander over his shoulder, and favored him with the sort of look one would give a rich brat who said something more than usually stupid, something that would shatter the veneer of courtesy people were forced to uphold otherwise. "Why'd you come find me, anyway?" he asked, as though Alexander's previous statement was not worthy of a response.

Alexander swallowed back his anger. “I would ask you for your counsel, sir.”

“My counsel,” said Mr. Arnold. “Whatever do you need my advice for?”

Abruptly, Alexander missed both his parents so much he could hardly even breathe. They’d both smiled at him like that—like there was a joke they’d be glad to let him in on, if he asked. Colonel Washington barely smiled at all.

It made Alexander’s words come out jumbled and too fast. His voice sounded broken and tinny to his own ears, the frightened, petulant whine of a child, but that was doubtless the distortion of the waves. “Colonel Washington said if I was so set on having terms to stay with him I should write them down and now we’re drawing up a contract and I don’t know what to put in it or what would be fair and I want to be fair only it’s a bit of a unique situation and he won’t use anything standard and I was just wondering what you thought because—“

Arnold let out an unimpressed grunt, turning back to his work, casting out the net and looking anywhere but at Alexander. “Master Washington, this is a private matter and hardly any of my business, why don’t you ask the colonel what he wants?”

“But he doesn’t seem to want anything,” Alexander whined, hating how childish he sounded even as the words came out of his mouth.

“Everyone always wants something, boy,” Arnold said, sounding both irritated and much more like his usual self. He still didn't deign to look at Alexander. “If you can’t figure out what that is, you have your assumptions wrong and need to start over.”

“That's what I'm trying to do!" Alexander howled in frustration.  He could almost see Arnold be physically driven backward as though Alexander’s voice were the wind driving him off course. Alexander felt one small vicious moment of satisfaction at finally making someone do something with his words, but then Arnold’s foot got caught in one of the ropes and he pitched backward even further, barely clinging to the edge of the railing. Without conscious thought, Alexander dashed toward the edge himself and threw Mr. Arnold one of the other ropes on deck. Arnold instinctively caught it, yanking Alexander forward before he could have the chance to finish tying the knot he had just learned yesterday. Alexander pitched forward, perilously close to the edge, and the dark water— _nononono—_

And then he was being yanked back again, just as suddenly and violently as the rope had pulled him forward.

Even in that moment of terror, there was no question whose broad arms encircled his waist, pulling him back, whose hand finished the job Alexander's fumbling fingers had begun. Alexander would know him by scent if nothing else, the strong fruity aroma of his pomade layered over seawater and smoke and sweat. He knew it by the way the broad bulk of the colonel's body sheltered his own, quickly stepping between Alexander and the danger of the water.

"Stay there," Colonel Washington rumbled, and Alexander found himself rooted to the spot, even as he resented being brought like a dog to heel.

As Alexander regained the balance in his body, he felt the turmoil in his soul grow greater. It was as though the wind had been blowing the ship toward rocks it could crash on, but just as suddenly reversed direction and calmed.

Washington should not have been there. Alexander should have fallen. He knew that in his bones, the way he knew his own name.

Washington and the sailors collaborated in some work he couldn't see to bring Mr. Arnold safe back up on deck. Alexander's chest expanded in relief, but the second Arnold was checked over by the crew, he stepped behind Washington to tower over Alexander.

"What in the hell was that," Arnold hissed, shaking his head and spraying droplets of water all over Alexander, who had to stifle a yelp of alarm. " _What in the hell were you doing there, Hamilton?"_

"I was trying to help!" said Alexander, indignant.

"You'd have helped yourself to an early burial at sea, boy, you're too little to take my weight, what were you _thinking?"_

"I beg your pardon, then, sir, for trying to save your life…"

“Alexander.” Colonel Washington's stern quiet was somehow the loudest thing on the deck. Alexander had to gulp down his fear, as Colonel Washington grasped him firmly by the shoulders. “A thousand pardons, Mr. Arnold, sir, you are quite correct, and he won’t be bothering you again…”

“You know, it’s interesting to me,” Arnold said. “The only person on this ship who seems to consider your son a bother is you, sir. I wonder why that is?” He smiled, then, the same smile that reminded Alexander of his parents, but with an edge to it. Alexander didn’t think he wanted to let either of them in on the joke this time.

Alexander’s stomach turned. There it was, the question he’d had this whole time, but was afraid to ask. For all that the colonel seemed to want to keep him, it was hard to tell why. Colonel Washington didn’t seem to like him very much. Maman always said you didn’t have to be fond of someone to work well with them or trust in their good intentions, and that you could be fond of someone without necessarily respecting him… _never forget they’re not the same, petit, you’ll break your heart one day on that difference,_ she’d told him once, and then pressed her lips together as if she’d said too much. But something about him seemed to make the colonel angry, and that was a different proposition altogether. Why would you want to keep somebody whose very existence upset you?

But Colonel Washington wasn’t inclined to answer the question. Or any other Mr. Arnold put to him. “Alexander, come. Now.”

Resentment burst through him along with the fear, and for a split second Alexander wondered what might happen if he said no, he preferred to stay where he was. But there was something forbidding in Colonel Washington’s frown, something Alexander had never quite seen before, and he could not help but respond to the order. He cast a long look back at Mr. Arnold in futile hope of rescue—the man was no help. "I suggest, Colonel Washington, sir, that you learn to control your son before he gets himself or all of us killed. And you, _Master Washington,_ should learn to sound a damn alarm and ask for help once in a while instead of—"

"That's enough," said Colonel Washington. "I will see to his discipline, sir, you have my word. Alexander, I won’t tell you again." He turned on his heel, not bothering to check back to see if Alexander followed.

What choice did he have?

“I wasn’t—“ he said to Colonel Washington’s unyielding back.

“Not another word, boy,” he said, so hard Alexander had to blink back tears, as if the words were slaps.

When they got back to their berth, Washington took the little chair, blocking Alexander's access to the desk. He didn't dare sit on the bed, either, and so he was forced to stand, as though Washington were his king or general and Alexander a disobedient subject slated for execution.

It wasn’t fair, he hadn’t even done anything wrong, he’d just…

“Look at me, son,” Washington said. But Alexander couldn’t; tears pricked hot at his eyelids and shame flushed his cheeks and if the colonel saw that he would see…

A hand, gentle but firm under his chin, pushed his head up so Alexander could not help but meet the colonel’s stern gaze. “Leaving aside Benedict Arnold's words to you, which were entirely correct in their sentiment if not their expression… _what did I say about lying to me, Alexander.”_

His words were slow and deliberate with nothing at all of the question about them, nowhere for Alexander to escape. “Not to. Sir.” He hated how the broken whisper of his voice sounded, like a whiny useless baby. “But I didn’t…”

“Did you, or did you not, speak to me with the intent to deceive me this morning, in order to get away with continuing an acquaintance you knew I would not condone?”

“I…” But he didn’t finish his answer. He didn’t have to. Washington knew.

“I am not the magistrate, Alexander, or the burgesses. Your good conduct does not rest on a technicality, nor can you argue away your misdeeds and avoid discipline. Remember that.”

 _What’s a burgess?_ he wondered, but it was worth more than his life to ask at this point. Not that it mattered—Washington would hardly wish to continue their negotiations, now that Alexander had acted in bad faith. And he hadn’t even meant to, that was the worst part. He wanted to help, to make things better, to show that even if he wasn’t the sort of person you stayed with, he was the sort who could be useful. But it didn’t work, he always made things worse and he didn’t know what he kept doing wrong.

He did know one thing, though. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

“An apology alone will not suffice this time, young man. There were three things I asked of you. Name them.”

He stood straighter, without meaning to, and the roil of dread in his stomach subsided a little upon being given a task to do. “To listen and obey,” he said, “to be…to be truthful always, and not to leave without telling you, sir.”

“And did you do as I asked?”

“You didn’t say I couldn’t speak to Mr. Arnold,” Alexander felt compelled to point out. If he’d already ruined everything there was nothing he could lose by saying so. “He’s been kind to me, sir, we’re…sort of friends.”

“He is not your friend,” barked Washington, sounding appalled at the very idea. “If you cannot see that, Alexander, then I know not what to say to you. The man took you as chattel.”

“That’s not the worst thing ever,” said Alexander. He’d rather be Arnold’s chattel than left all alone, which was probably going to happen to him any moment now. “I’d be fine.” As he would be now, he tried to remind himself. He’d been alone before. He’d be alone again. He was probably better off that way, with no Washington or Arnold or patron of any kind.

“God in heaven, you believe that, don’t you. Alexander, I will only say this once. Stay. Away. From that man. I don’t want you speaking with him any more than is necessary for politeness’ sake. Do you understand, son?”

That Washington would call him _son_ now, when he was just about to cast him out, seemed the worst, most unfair thing he could do in this moment. "Don't you tell me what to do," Alexander snapped. "You have no right. I never said you could, I haven't set my terms." He'd been right to go with Mr. Arnold in the first place, he realized. At least Mr. Arnold had been honest about not wanting to keep him forever.

"I will do whatever I must to keep you safe, Alexander. That's not negotiable."

"Then you're as much of a liar as me, you said you would let me…you said…" His anger overwhelmed him as much as the smack of the waves against the ship, pelting him to and fro so that there was no solid ground to stand on. “And how do you think you can justify yelling at me for doing something you didn’t want when you obviously followed me up there--”

“Of course I followed you, Alexander, and thank God I did. You do not make good choices on your own, look what almost happened, you could have _died--”_

Alexander recoiled, feeling like he’d been slapped. “Then what’s the point of even pretending you trust me, sir, if you’re just going to treat me like a baby or a dullard?”

“I will treat you as your behavior merits, Alexander.”

"Just tell me what you want, then," Alexander managed to get out. "Since it's obviously not the contract. Tell me the truth."

"You're right," Washington said. "I don't want to negotiate. I want nothing more than for you to forget this and accept your place in the family, accept that you are my son. But since that isn't possible right now—"

Alexander cut him off. "I'm not your son."

He expected Washington to chide him for insolence, or to yell. But he couldn't have predicted the colonel's reaction, not if he had all the time in the world to consider it. Washington’s face…twisted, was the only way Alexander could describe it. Contorted with pain, or something else, something deeper that he had no name for. “Yes, you are,” he breathed. “You are my brilliant, impossible boy, and I love you very much.”

And then all of a sudden Alexander was being pulled close, and his forehead was being kissed, which made no sense whatsoever. “Sir,” he bleated in protest, but Washington was having none of it.

“Very much, you hear that?”

“But I lied,” Alexander admitted. "I lied and I provoked you…d-deliberately, to see what you would—"

"Shhh, Alexander, I know."

"You do?" Alexander himself had not known until the moment he said the words.

Washington huffed—Alexander felt the gust of breath ruffle his hair, still caught in the colonel's grip as he was. “I'm your father, boy. Of course I know."

"Then what—"

Colonel Washington let his grip slacken and stepped backward so that he could survey Alexander. Alexander tried his best not to feel bereft. "Listen to me. I am very disappointed in your conduct today, young man. But that doesn’t mean I love you one whit less, or ever will. You are and always will be my son, no matter how badly you behave."

 _Then what’s the point of having a contract at all?_ Alexander swallowed. He had to face this, had to understand what would become of him. "But the terms…how can you trust me if…"

"Oh, my b…my boy," he said, stumbling over it like he'd meant to say something else. "I was afraid of this. You are not on probation, Alexander. You need prove nothing at all to me. You made a mistake, that's all, and it's my duty to correct it, not cast you out."

"What will you do to me?" he asked.

Washington seemed to take the question to be one about his punishment. "You're confined to this room until we dock, unless supervised. You go above, you're in my sight and my reach. No exceptions."

Alexander’s trepidation at his future vanished at the utter injustice of this pronouncement. He wasn’t a baby, and he didn’t need a minder. "Sir, no, please, I'll do as you say from now on, I promise…."

"Yes, you will, Alexander. I will not allow you to do otherwise, not again."

He meant it. Alexander could tell he meant it. "I…I truly am sorry, sir, and I do hope you will give me the chance to prove my sincerity…"

"You can do that by honoring the terms of your confinement, Alexander."

Alexander understood then that he wasn't getting out of this, now or anytime soon. A tactical retreat, then, was the better part of valor. He walked over to the bed, let himself sink down onto it.

Washington correctly took this for acquiescence. "Thank you."

Alexander thought he would leave then, but instead Washington sat down next to him, close enough that Alexander could feel the heat coming off his body, but not close enough to touch.

Alexander understood him even less than before. _I wish I could tell what you want,_ he thought.

"Stay here," Washington said, as if in answer. “Stay with me.”

 


	8. be true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that moment where everything kind of pauses at the top of the roller coaster ride?
> 
> Well. We're here.

Alexander was bored.

He hadn’t moved from the spot he’d sat down in after Colonel Washington passed judgment on him in God knew how long. The colonel hadn’t moved either, sitting unnaturally still with his hands folded in his lap. Alexander didn’t know how anybody could stay still that long, or why anyone would want to. Colonel Washington wasn’t confined to this room, so why would he stay here?

Alexander slowly came to notice his leg jiggling back and forth, like it couldn’t help moving with the jarring roil of the waves. He felt rather than saw the colonel’s frown of disapproval, but didn’t do anything to stop it. If the man was going to keep Alexander prisoner here, then he would just have to resign himself to Alexander moving as much as he liked. At least until his unnatural patience wore off.

Which it soon did. “Be still, Alexander,” the colonel murmured. Compared to the scolding of earlier he was quite gentle, but Alexander’s resentment flared once more from the embers.

“I’m not moving, sir,” he said, letting his leg continue as it would.

“You’re fidgeting, my boy.”

“Am not,” Alexander shot back, feeling ridiculous even as he said it.

“You have nothing to fear, Alexander,” said the colonel. This did not seem to follow at all, and Alexander looked up at him in surprise. “You’re safe, and there is no need for this agitation.”

“I’m not afraid, sir,” he said. “I’m angry.”

“Angry at me for imposing some much-needed discipline on you, or angry at yourself for the behavior that landed you here?”

 _Angry at Maman for dying, and Dad for not getting back in time and leaving me here with you._ But he couldn’t say that. “Do I have to choose?”

The colonel, for some reason, laughed. “An excellent point, son. No, you may be as angry with me as you please, and as for yourself, I only hope that you use those feelings to improve and take them as a lesson, so you do not find yourself in the same place ere long.”

Alexander could see the sense in that. He truly could. Colonel Washington was rarely wrong in his conclusions, if you accepted the bizarre logic from which he started, which Alexander rarely could. “Sir, do I really have to stay in here the whole entire time we’re on the ship?”

“I told you, you may leave only when supervised. Do you wish me to take you somewhere now? I shall, if you promise to stay near as you were told.”

Alexander would rather be put in the brig and live on bread and water than submit to being treated like an infant in leading strings. “But sir, what if I’m good for a few days, then…”

“Alexander, what did I say about not being the magistrate? You’ve no case to plead here and no bargain to make, so stop trying.”

Alexander’s back stiffened. Who did Washington think he was, anyway? What game was he playing? Perhaps if Alexander pushed him a little more, his temper would flare and he would show his hand. “Sir, I don’t understand why you won’t be reasonable…”

If anything, Washington’s voice only got calmer and more level. “You will not provoke me, Alexander, and you won’t change my mind. Your safety is far too important for that.”

“I don’t want to be safe,” Alexander whined. _Oh, very good, Hamilton, that will definitely convince him you can take care of yourself._

“I know, son,” said Washington. “Why is that, do you think?”

He sounded…sad. Defeated, almost, which frightened Alexander. “Sir, I…” He let himself trail off, expecting Washington to lecture, but the man remained silent for several excruciating moments during which Alexander realized he actually expected an answer. He swallowed. “I don’t know, sir.”

 _Then end this defiance and obey me._ That was what any reasonable guardian would have said; Alexander understood that. It was what he would have said to himself, were he in charge. But Washington was different, and remained ever so gentle. “Could it be that you do not believe you deserve safety?”

Alexander stared at his boots, the new ones Washington had bought him, still shining with polish even after Alexander’s many hours traipsing around the ship, which he supposed had come to an end now. His eyes stung, and he furiously blinked away the tears. He took a deep breath to rebut the man’s contention, though he knew not what to say. But Washington took his silence for agreement. “Ah,” he said.

Alexander almost expected to feel the weight of Washington’s arm on his shoulder, pulling him close, but of course it did not come. He should not allow himself to grow so used to being coddled, it was stupid of him.

“You do, you know. You deserve every happiness.” After a moment: “I mean to give it to you.”

Something about the way Washington said the words made them seem like a secret or an admission of guilt, something Washington didn’t wish to reveal. _Something he’s ashamed of,_ Alexander’s mind supplied. Alexander felt his shoulders stiffen as he hunched over further. “That’s stupid,” he said, barely able to get the words out around the gigantic lump in his throat. “You can’t just make somebody be happy when they’re not. It’s not like giving a present.”

“You are wiser than you know, my boy,” Washington said with more equanimity than Alexander had believed him capable of, considering that Alexander had just called him a name. “It is something we will need to work on, you and I.”

“What if I don’t want to work on anything with you?” It was a question Alexander had tried to ask, in various forms, throughout their journey. Washington’s answers had thus far failed to satisfy him, composed as they were of promises he had neither the right nor the authority to make.

“Eventually you’ll get bored, and you will,” Washington said flatly, and Alexander was so startled he looked up at the man.

Evidently that wasn’t what Washington meant to say either, for he looked so horrified—his brows drawn together and his mouth falling half-open—that Alexander could not help but laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed, and he felt bad that it was at Washington’s expense, but he couldn’t help it.

“I’m so sorry, I did not mean—“ Washington said, at the same time as Alexander recovered enough to say, “Y-you are probably correct, sir.”

He could not imagine ever being happy again, especially not in Washington’s household, among strangers who had no reason to care for him and many to resent him. It felt like a betrayal of his mother and Jamie to even contemplate such a future. But he could admit when the man was right. Alexander was, after all, bored already, and he knew himself to be enough of his mother’s son that he wouldn’t be able to stay sad forever. He’d probably end up being dragged to happiness against his will.

 _Like he dragged me on this journey_ , he thought, but no, that wasn’t fair. Washington had asked him to come home with him, and Alexander had consented. It was wrong of him to pretend otherwise and act like Washington’s authority over him was somehow illegitimate. His mother, whatever her true relationship with Washington had been, would be so disappointed in him for that.

“I’m sorry I keep trying to go away,” Alexander said. “I won’t do it anymore.”

“Alex…” Colonel Washington breathed. His cheeks turned ruddy, and for a moment he seemed so overcome he could not speak or breathe. Alexander, alarmed, reached out for him as if his hands could steady the older man; Washington, doubtless not realizing his intent with the gesture, caught them in his own. The man’s hands shook as badly as if he had been afflicted by some sort of palsy. “I’m sorry I keep making your circumstances intolerable enough that you feel you must.”

“No, sir, it’s not that, please, you’ve been really good to me…” And he had, Alexander knew he had, there was no reason for Washington to take on the guilt of Alexander’s bad behavior.

“Hush, boy, no, it’s my job to take care of you and you should never have been in a position to sign that foolish contract…”

 _How badly did that scare him?_ Alexander wondered. It must have made a deep impression or he wouldn’t still be going on about it. “It’s not like you could have stopped me, sir,” he said.

“Yes,” said Washington gravely. “I could have. And what’s more, I should have. You should never have been in as much danger as you have experienced, on this voyage or elsewhere, and that you have been is my failure.”

Listening to Washington was like trying to understand a language he hadn’t quite learned, where he could make sense of all the words but not the meaning. “Sir?” he asked, almost too tentatively for a question.

Washington spoke slowly, the way one would to a child who was sick or in pain. “Do you know what will happen to you, Alexander, if you run away from me again?”

Alexander braced himself for a bunch of long, grim predictions about his fate, or a recitation of the punishments that surely awaited him. He didn’t dare respond.

“I will come and get you, and bring you safely home, that’s what,” Washington said with conviction.

He sounded far too certain. “I just said I wouldn’t, sir.”

“You may yet change your mind,” Washington said, “and if you do that is all right, for I will come for you.”

“What if you can’t find me?” Alexander asked.

“I will, son.”

“What if I get kidnapped by pirates, and then you have to chase after them and they make you pay a ransom? Would you?” It would be exciting to get kidnapped, he thought. Especially if he could rescue himself heroically, before Washington even got there. Surely Washington would know Alexander's worth then.

Washington shrugged. “Pirates are just businessmen of another sort. I know how to make deals.”

"What if they ask you for too much, sir? Surely we'd have to fight to get away then."

Washington's demeanor turned serious. "Alex, you should know by now that there is no price too high for that."

"And you should know I think that foolish, sir," Alexander said, just as gravely. "What if there should be some emergency, and the cost become too high?"

"Alexander, you are a brilliant boy, and wise beyond your years, so I will not lie to you. You know I cannot…I cannot promise you forever, Alexander, no matter how much I wish to. But know that should we be parted, it will not be by my will, not ever. It will not be because you were ever too much.”

Alexander almost felt sorry for the man. He said that now, but he hadn’t known Alexander that long…what would happen when Washington inevitably tired of him? “We may yet part after a season, sir,” Alexander said, to remind him that he hadn’t agreed to forever either, even if he had said yes to this journey.

“Ah, yes.” Washington made a little moue of distaste, reminding Alexander of nothing so much as a lady who thought the scent of a man’s pomade was a little too strong, but who did not wish to say so in front of the gentleman. “Your contract. You can finish that today, if you’re in want of occupation.”

“You mean you’ll still let me sign it?” said Alexander, hardly daring to believe it. He thought he had lost his chance to negotiate when Washington punished him.

“Unless you wish for something more permanent…” Washington trailed off hopefully.

Alexander thought of something. This could be a way to test Washington’s mettle. If he really wanted never to leave Alexander, then he should at least agree to a few months without showing any disappointment. “Well, sir, now that I think about it, three months really doesn’t seem all that long to get to know a new place. If I stayed longer I could learn more of your estate. You know, get established, make contacts. That sort of thing.”

“You could,” said Washington. “That is most prudent, Alexander.”

Alexander watched him carefully. While he didn’t exactly sound enthusiastic, neither was there any evidence of disappointment in his demeanor. Good enough for now, Alexander supposed. “So four months then?”

“If you stayed half a year,” said Washington, “you’d see the spring planting, and the House in session, while still giving you time to get settled in school.”

Oh. There it was. He was to be sent away after all, then, in the way of embarrassments, to some drab establishment where Washington would only have to tolerate him for a few weeks of holidays every year, and maybe not even then for the right fee. A rather elegant solution, he thought. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t suggested it himself. “That’s fine, sir,” he said.

 _Don’t be ungrateful_ , he told himself. _You wanted to go to school. If Jamie were here he’d deck you and be right to do it._

But Jamie wasn’t there, because he too had left Alexander. He'd called Jamie stupid for that, told him he was throwing away his shot, but now he had to wonder if it wasn't the smartest thing his brother had ever done.

It was hard to muster enthusiasm for drawing up the papers after that. Indeed, Washington seemed much more invested in the clauses than he did, quizzing him on several scenarios in which Alexander would be allowed to leave prematurely. Cruelty was one—distinct, Washington reminded him, from discipline, which he insisted on being able to provide. Alexander didn’t dare ask him what he thought to be the difference, but he was able to get him to list the circumstances in which he would be punished—disobedience, lying, unkindness to Mrs. Washington or her children, that sort of thing. Alexander thought his rules would be easy enough to follow, so he didn’t mind them being listed.

Some of the other clauses Washington put in, though, were bizarre. Alexander was to be permitted to leave without notice if Washington failed to provide him with clothing, or shelter, or the use of his estates, or what was necessary for an education, including books.

“But you wouldn’t,” said Alexander. “You wouldn’t withhold those things from me, sir, not without reason.”

“It’s good that you know that, son, but that doesn’t mean you ought not get it in writing,” said Washington, unyielding. “It is when you trust someone that you ought to make your expectations clear. That will do you a service, and me, too.”

 _How did he do that_? wondered Alexander. Alexander was pretty sure he had been the one writing most of the contract, and yet somehow Washington was indisputably in command of the negotiations, negotiations which he claimed he didn’t even want.

 _Maybe he’ll teach me that if I stay_.

Their one sticking point was the matter of a profession. Washington wanted to put in a clause saying that the education that would be provided would be done so as to establish Alexander as a man of independent means. Which was fine by Alexander—obviously a bastard could not expect to inherit, and he didn’t want any of Washington’s charity anyway. But then Washington made the mistake of asking him what his wishes were his future were, and Alexander made the mistake of answering.

“I won’t go into trade,” he says. “Everyone said I should be a clerk because I’m good with numbers, but I won’t, it’s boring and beneath my intellect besides.”

If anything, Washington seemed relieved by that. “Quite right,” he said. “But Alexander…what is your wish, for your future? If you could go anywhere or do anything, where would you go?”

 _I would seek glory._ “I want to be a soldier,” he blurted out, and was rewarded for his candor with a look on Washington’s face as ominous as storm clouds ahead of them on the horizon.

“No,” the man said curtly. As if it were not up for discussion at all.

He seemed to realize he had misspoken—immediately he composed his expression into something resembling its usual placidity—but the damage was done. “You have no right…” he said.

“Forgive me, Alexander, but I don’t…His Majesty’s Army is not the place for you. Put that wish out of your mind. You can and will do so much better.”

Safer, maybe. But there was no other place for a bastard orphan to make a name for himself, apart from the tainted legacy of his birth. “But you were a soldier,” he said.

“So I know whereof I speak. The Army looks on the service of colonists as lesser, Alexander. You would have to bow and scrape to men who are not your betters, nor even your equals. I would not have my son suffer that indignity. Nor any other Virginian, for that matter, but especially not you. It would be a waste.”

Interesting. “So are you saying that His Majesty is not worth serving, then?”

“I am saying that I want your legacy to be greater than wasting your life on some battle. Besides, it’s peacetime. There are other avenues open to you for advancement, surely.”

He hadn’t denied what Alexander said about the king. “I wish there was a war,” Alexander said, a thought he’d begun to have more and more often lately. “Then I could prove my worth.”

Washington shook his head sadly. “Don’t say that, my boy. There is no glory in war. Only futility.”

Alexander decided it was the better part of valor to let the matter drop. He’d be gone in a few months, anyway, and then Washington would have no say in his legacy. But he had to ask. “What is it you would have me be, sir?”

“When you’re grown? A statesman,” he said immediately, like the answer was obvious.

That, he thought, was not an ambition most fathers had for their sons. “Aren’t generals statesmen?” he asked, just to argue the point.

“Some very few,” said Washington. “But mostly soldiers follow orders. A statesman is he who directs them so that there is enough of society left to build again, after a war, or better yet, ensures there need not be war at all.”

Alexander paused to consider this.

Washington cleared his throat. “Truly, Alexander, what I want most is for you to be happy.”

It did not quite sound like a lie. But Alexander had the feeling Washington would prefer if his happiness were found in being a statesman, not a gentleman of leisure.

So be it, then. That was useful to know. He could work with that, for now.

“I would be happy if you let me out,” Alexander said, but he sounded half-hearted even to himself.

“No, love, I don’t think you would,” Washington said. “If you learn I mean what I say in this, perhaps you will learn I mean what I say in other respects as well.”

“I do not question your sincerity, sir,” Alexander felt compelled to say.

“Only my ability,” Washington said. “That is perhaps prudent…my father died when I was about your age. But can you trust that I will try, at least? Will you let me try, Alexander?"

It could not be clearer to him that Washington was making a supreme effort. What he couldn't figure out was why, and to what end. "I know you will, sir." _Do you know I'm trying too?_ He wanted to ask, but he could not quite dare.

After that their negotiations proceeded smoothly enough, though Alexander could not help but feel there was something missing from the contract, something Washington had omitted deliberately. But no matter how meticulously he went over each clause and subclause, he couldn’t find it. It was all there…length of time, obligations on both sides, what was permitted and what was not.

 _I can renegotiate in a few months,_ he thought. _Surely I’ll figure it out before then._ When he signed his name— _A. Hamilton_ —his hand did not tremble. Washington’s handshake afterwards was as firm as he would give any business associate, which Alexander appreciated, though he couldn’t help noticing the man’s hand was clammy.

 _Maybe he’s nervous_ , Alexander thought, feeling rather charmed by that.

“Good,” said Washington brusquely. “That’s done. Now, the supper bell tolled so we’ll go join the others, and where will you stay?”

He had to try. “Sir, since that penalty was imposed upon me before we signed our contract, surely it has been superseded by our new terms.”

Washington’s mouth quirked. “Nice try, Alexander.”

“But, sir…”

Washington jabbed his finger at the paper, careful not to touch the ink, which was still drying. “Read that to me.”

Alexander swallowed. “…that the party of the first part shall, in accordance with his greater wisdom and experience, impose such measures as he deems necessary for the protection of the party of the second part, and the party of the second part shall accede to those measures without hesitation, complaint, or defiance.”

“That’s right. So, where will you be?”

Alexander gave up. “In your sight and your reach, sir.”

“Good lad.” With something Alexander would almost call tenderness, he smoothed Alexander's hair back from his forehead. Alexander thought maybe he ought to have put in a clause banning such nonsense, but it would look like the height of churlishness to object now. At least Washington didn't seem angry at him for trying to get out of his punishment.

As a matter of fact, it was a good thing Alexander had to stay close, for Washington stumbled several times on the way to the galley, and Alexander had to help him right himself with his arm. Usually that was the other way around, and Alexander wasn’t sure what had changed—if anything the waters were almost too calm for the pace they needed to maintain, their movement sluggish. And Washington responded to his queries of concern with naught but grunts.

Dinner was a nightmarish affair. They ate at the captain’s table, but Alexander was forbidden from going around to talk to everyone else the way he usually did at meals. The captain seemed afflicted by the lethargy that had befallen his ship. Deep in his cups, he made no conversation with either Washington or Alexander. More, the other officers, evidently having concluded that Alexander’s recklessness earlier made him a liability, wouldn’t speak to him either. (He tried to join their card game, and was sharply rebuked for it by Washington, which was ridiculous, as Alexander knew very well that the colonel played at cards…he’d seen him recording the amounts he’d lost in his cash book.)

Far sooner than usual, Washington made his excuses, and Alexander was left to trot at his heels like an obedient puppy. “Time for bed,” he said as soon as the door to their berth closed behind him.

“But sir, we have lots of lantern light left and the sun hasn’t even set…”

“I am weary, Alexander,” said Washington. “It has been a long and difficult few days. You may stay up and read for a short while if you choose, so long as you are quiet, but I am going to bed.”

And so he did, not even sparing Alexander his usual murmured ‘good night, son,’ let alone supervising him in prayer. Because Alexander didn’t go to bed with him as usual, Washington sprawled across the bed, taking all the blankets for himself, in stark contrast to his usual solicitude in this arena.

Alexander tried to concentrate on his book, but it was no use. He kept glancing over his shoulder at Washington, who tossed and turned, a sharp departure from his usual stillness. “Sir,” he said, but Washington made no response. Eventually Alexander gave it up for a bad job and put out the lantern. He did his best to crawl into bed without Washington noticing, but the man reached for him, grasping, helpless.

Touching him burned like coals, and Alexander jerked back in surprise. “Sir, you’ve a fever,” he said, voice high-pitched and frightened like a child’s.

“Nah,” said Washington, reaching for him again. “Can’t get warm, so cold in here—c’mere love, mustn’t let you take a chill.” The blankets Washington tried to drape over him were soaked with sweat, and Alexander recoiled from them.

“I’ll—I’ll sleep in the chair, let you rest,” he stammered. “Can I get you something—water, or…”

“No,” Washington said, clearer now. “You stay, remember?”

“But surely this is an emergency,” babbled Alexander.

“I’ll be fine in the morning, just as soon as I can get warm,” Washington said. “Now sleep.”

But Alexander didn’t sleep, and Washington was not fine in the morning, or the days after that. Instead, his fever only grew worse. Alexander tried to cool his brow with a wet cloth, but it did no good. He snuck out to the galley and brought him back broth, which he spoonfed to him as though Washington were a child and he were a nursemaid, but the man would take little. He talked a lot, more than his usual wont, but his babbling rarely made sense. He called for Alexander when Alexander was sitting right there, and for his brother Lawrence, and sometimes for ladies—Sally, and Martha, and once a wrenching, agonized moan of _Rachel, oh, God, Rach, I failed you, I failed our baby…_

"I'm here," Alexander said. His voice sounded high and strained to his own ears, like he was fighting to be heard over the wind. "You haven't failed anything, sir."

"Alex," Washington said, as though surprised to see him there. "Forgive me, please."

"What for?" Alexander asked. "You haven't done anything wrong, sir."

Washington made a terrible, desperate noise, a mockery of a laugh. "So many things…so many…." He made a visible, heroic effort to compose himself. "Alexander, I need…you must promise me that should I die, you will go to Martha."

"Sir, no, surely you won't, this is…seasickness, or something, it's unnecessary…"

"She will love you as I do…and care for you the way I could not, Alexander, you can trust her."

"You're not going to die, sir, please stop talking nonsense—"

"I need you to go to her, Alexander, please. She will need someone to take care of her, too—the children…Patsy's sickly and Jacky…he won't…he won't be able to. But you could, you're my smart, strong boy…"

That was quite enough of that. "I am not yours, sir, and I'm certainly not a chess piece you can move at will. I'll thank you not to treat me as such."

"Alexander…"

He had to get out of this room, away from this man. Had to do something to make him stop. He turned away from Washington's sickbed.

 _I can't do this again,_ he thought out of nowhere, and ran out of the berth as fast as he could.

If Alexander got help for Washington, maybe he would stop with this nonsense. He went above decks, hoping to find the ship’s surgeon, only to find that Washington wasn’t the only one sick. Indeed, two of the crew and several of the servants had already fallen to the fever, and the good surgeon was hardly sympathetic.

“Do you have laudanum, or anything that might help him, he’s delirious, please.”

“If I did I’d hardly waste it, now, would I,” the man said gruffly.

“John,” said another man sternly, and Alexander turned around in shock. Benedict Arnold was there, looking overworked and haggard. “Come on, man, he’s a kid, put it to him a bit more gently?”

“But—“ Alexander gulped, and all of a sudden Arnold was leading him away, one arm slung gently around Alexander's shoulder.

“I’ve got this, no thanks to you,” Arnold snapped at the surgeon.

“Look, kid,” Arnold said, but Alexander had an idea.

“You’re an apothecary, aren’t you, Mr. Arnold, sir? Do you have anything I could use? I’ll pay fair price for it, or we can come to some other arrangement if you want something else, I just…he needs help, sir. Right now.”

“Hamilton,” said Arnold, a warning.

“Please, there must be something…”

“Hamilton…Washington, rather…look at me.” There was a gentleness to his voice Alexander had never heard from Benedict Arnold, and it was the most terrifying thing Alexander had heard since leaving St. Croix. “If there was something I could do to help your dad, kid, it would already be done for free. You’ll have noticed we’ve been in rougher waters today?”

Startled, Alexander realized he hadn’t. He had mistaken the motion of the waves for the churn of panic in his gut, the cold howling wind for the thrill of fear.

“Captain needs all hands, kid. Naught can be spared for someone who might not make it out alive. You get what I’m telling you?”

Alexander gaped at him. “Go fuck yourself, Arnold,” he said, infuriated.

If Washington were here, he’d have slapped him for using such language. Arnold didn’t react at all, and that made Alexander even angrier. “He’s a strong man, and stubborn,” said Arnold calmly. “Don’t lose heart.”

“Fuck you,” Alexander repeated, in a bizarre hope that the oath would summon Washington to appear out of nowhere and drag him away, the way he usually did when Alexander misbehaved in some way.

Arnold said nothing, only stared at him with a look that was horribly familiar.

Pity.

The sort of pity one gave an orphan.

Alexander barely made it to the railing before he vomited over the edge.


	9. chaos and bloodshed already haunt us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ossapher and Scio saved me from looking like a complete idiot, and held my hand when I was totally unsure of myself. They are the best of friends.

Benedict Arnold’s pity was short-lived.

Alexander barely finished vomiting before Arnold was pulling him back, but not in the gentle way Washington had done when he was worried Alexander risked falling. Instead Arnold’s arm was so tight around him it made it difficult to breathe, and Alexander gasped in pain as he was forced back, nearly falling to the deck.

“Are you done,” Arnold said flatly.

Alexander stared at him, into eyes hard and unyielding. It was like he couldn’t hear what Arnold was saying, even though there were no problems with the man’s volume. Like Arnold was shouting at him from across the ship even though they were standing right next to each other. He blinked, then blinked again.

“I said. Are you done, boy?”

“I—“

“Answer me,” Arnold said, enunciating each word slowly and clearly, “or I will toss you into the hold with the slaves and the rest of the dead weight.”

No, that wasn’t right. Arnold had no right to do that anymore, he didn’t own Alexander or hold his contract, Washington had broken it and signed his own which surely meant that he owned Alexander now? But that wasn’t right either, Washington would be upset if Alexander put it that way, although Alexander couldn’t see the difference, he’d been trying to see the difference this whole time but couldn’t and that was why their negotiations had been a disaster and now he might not get to apologize for it, might never see Washington again—

“Hamilton!”

His name. Was that his name? Washington had said it wasn’t, had called him _Alexander_ _Washington_ and made it sound true and right, like hearing the opening notes of a song he’d long forgotten. But Washington wasn’t here. “I am done, sir.” Done what? He didn’t know, but he knew he definitely didn’t want to be tossed in the hold.

Arnold’s voice gentled a fraction. “Are you going to be sick again, do you think? I can’t have you help if you’re going to collapse on me.”

Help. He could be of help. What kind of help? He couldn’t seem to make everyone stop dying. “No, sir, I won’t be sick.”

“Good. Take this, it should restore your nerves a little.” Arnold reached into the pouch at his belt and handed Alexander a tiny metal flask. With shaking hands Alexander poured half the contents down his throat. It burned going down, and Alexander coughed and spat, some of the whiskey ending up on his shirt.

He expected Arnold to hit him for wasting his spirits, but the man only smiled, indulgent as a fond uncle. “Whoa there,” he said. “Take it slow, boy, take your time.”

Surely this was the moment Washington would come and find him, if his foul language hadn’t done it. He could almost see it happening, Washington storming up, weather be damned, to ask  _ why does my son smell like a distillery, Arnold? And as for you, young man, is there some alternative interpretation of ‘confined to your cabin,’ of which I was previously unaware, that somehow includes cavorting on deck with people you have been specifically forbidden from associating with? _

Alexander would go with him willingly, of course, and amend his conduct, and take his punishment under clause XV.ii of the contract the way he’d agreed, and be a polite, obedient, and grateful ward henceforth, all that Washington deserved in a...youth in his care. He would. As soon as Washington came for him, which could happen at any moment, so Alexander had better recover himself and stop behaving in this shameful manner.

But Washington did not come.

“Sorry,” Alexander gasped, trying to spit out more of the foul taste, but not wanting to appear ungrateful.

“Better?” asked Arnold, in a tone of voice that could almost pass for kind.

Surprisingly, he did feel a little better. Warmer, at least. Steadier. “Thank you, sir. I should…I should go back.” And apologize for what he’d said, even though Washington was hardly in a state to hear it.

“Ah-ah,” said Arnold. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Captain needs all hands, even yours. If you can walk, you can work.”

“But Colonel Washington…” he said as Arnold pried the flask from his hand and seized him roughly by the shoulders, pushing him away from Washington and their cabin. Alexander tried to wriggle out of his grip, but was rewarded only with pain as Arnold’s hands clamped down on him hard enough to bruise. He could not help comparing him to Washington, who would steer Alexander similarly, to his chagrin, but whose touch was never a punishment. Rather it had always felt, somehow, like Washington was using his body to shelter Alexander.

“Let go of me,” he said, and was ignored. That, at least, was the same. “I have to go back to him.”

Arnold shoved him again. “Colonel Washington will not be any better for your sitting at his bedside weeping like a maiden, now will he? What use are your tears to him if the ship sinks, huh? If he gets better you can tell him you were a hero, how’s that? A brave and proper gentleman. He’ll like that.” Arnold’s tone was what passed for encouraging with Arnold, which was to say less caustic than usual, so Alexander could tell he was serious.

He could, he thought, run away. Kick Arnold or take him by surprise, shut himself up in the cabin like a good little boy. Only he wasn’t sure he trusted himself on the deck alone, and besides, he didn’t want the crew to see that and think him a coward, a stupid boy who got spooked by a little storm and had to run back to Papa.

Besides, there was some sense in what Arnold said. A hero. Alexander didn’t mind the thought of being a hero. Even if heroism consisted of frantically taking an oar and using it in tandem with the rest of the sailors, and later, when their efforts did no good, switching to a bucket and doing his best to bail the brackish seawater out. There was too much water, though, enough that he felt like he was going to be swept away under the waves,  and even in his fear it seemed like the sailors and passengers looked on his efforts with naught but disappointment, as though they wished for Washington by their side, not his bastard. Alexander couldn’t blame them, wishing as he did for the exact same thing. He kept thinking Washington would come out and join them--when one of the sailors cuffed him for being too slow with his rowing, and had to be called off by Arnold, or when a particularly vicious wavelet drenched him.

_ Here, my boy,  _ he would say, gruffly,  _ take a rest, _ and he would force Alexander back and take his place, and his efforts would be what turned the tide for them, because Washington was brave and strong even when sick, unlike Alexander who was perfectly fine and needed to double his efforts.

But Washington did not appear, and no one saved them. And yet Alexander seemed curiously unable to panic, even as the mood around him shifted. At the beginning of the night the sailors seemed jovial, if a little tense-- _ we’ve all done this before,  _ Arnold had said,  _ don’t you worry. _ But as the minutes--hours? he didn’t know--crept by, laughter turned to curses, and Alexander could see the fear in their eyes, though he didn’t share it.  _ Perhaps because for me the worst has already happened,  _ he thought. Besides, Arnold was calm enough. Surely Arnold would tell him if they had to abandon ship. Surely Washington would realize if they were in danger, and come and find them before things got too out of hand.

Even as the crew rushed around them, Benedict Arnold was constantly at his side, finding excuses to keep Alexander with him even when logic dictated he should be elsewhere. It was that curious fact that made Alexander slow to realize they were getting overwhelmed. The captain’s orders came fast and furious, but contradictory as he and his crew struggled to navigate the vessel. Alexander gathered they were close to shore, but not the right shore, Colonel Washington’s beloved Virginia Colony, and they were trying to get back on course but the winds were having none of it, and the shallow waters paradoxically did them no favors. Arnold himself had told him something similar, when Alexander had thought he would be serving him—closeness to shore increased their danger, and only required that sailors be more vigilant than ever. But the swells were too much, and Alexander could do nothing to stop it, and even the more experienced sailors had little idea what to do when their directions kept changing.

The world turned white, and the thunder was so loud it felt like the world was cracking. Someone screamed—a child, a little boy, Alexander thought, which was strange, there were no children here, where were his parents? The mast split in two, struck as accurate and deadly as the judgment from God it must surely be, only they hadn’t done anything wrong, it wasn’t fair, they were being careful, he was trying really hard, why wasn’t that enough?

Someone was talking to him--no, Arnold was yelling at him, only Alexander couldn’t hear what he said.

“What?” he called back.

“Shut your damn mouth for once in your life, kid, we gotta go.” At least that was what Alexander thought he said. Arnold spoke slowly, so Alexander could try to read his lips.

“Go?” asked Alexander.

“Didn’t you hear the whistle? That was the signal to abandon ship. Move. We have to get to where the boats are, c’mon.”

He smelled burning. Why were things burning, how were they burning? None of this made any sense. But he did know one thing. Washington would be so disappointed in him if he didn’t at least try to help, and the crew could not, engaged as they were in fighting for their lives.

“There are ladies on this ship, Arnold, and Mrs. Palmer is with child, and we can’t go to safety without them, no gentleman would abandon a baby to drown…”

“I know,” said Arnold. “That is precisely what I have been trying to prevent all evening, Hamilton. Go.”

And at last he was able to be of some use, for as they rushed to where the lifeboats were being lowered Arnold explained what Alexander had to admit was a completely brilliant plan for being thought of on the spot. Arnold would use Alexander to speak to the women, to reassure them as they evacuated the ship, and then to get them to row, for ladies were overly sentimental and attached to their things, and some of them would doubtless be near hysterics. Alexander just had to wait with the boats for a moment, while Arnold made sure that everyone was all right. Alexander could see the sense in that. He would only slow Arnold down.

Besides, this gave him the opportunity to watch the passengers as they climbed into the boats one by one. Some of the ladies were already there, and the merchants that came with the ship. Even the young midshipmen were allowed to get in the boats. But though Alexander looked and looked, he could find no one who cast a taller shadow than everyone else, could not catch a glimpse of broad shoulders or furrowed brow. But Washington would come. He knew it. Washington would come and reclaim him from Arnold, like he always did, and together they would see everyone else on the ship to safety. He would insist on helping Alexander into the lifeboat, even though Alexander wouldn’t need help, he would be strong and brave, steady and dependable. Like he was being right now. He just had to be patient, and wait for it like Washington was always telling him to do. Trust in Washington, like Washington was always saying he should.

He was so firm in his resolve that he almost didn’t notice Arnold’s return, a few of their female passengers in tow. Contrary to what Arnold had led him to expect, they seemed as composed and steady as it was possible to be in such circumstances, except for the previously unflappable Mrs. Jenkins, who wept to leave her husband, who was nowhere in sight on the lifeboat deck.

“But the boy won’t leave without you, Mrs. Jenkins, please understand, we must go.” Alexander almost fancied he saw Mrs. Palmer kick at her foot, but that must just be their uncertain footing...the ship’s movement was more and more erratic now, and Alexander had to cling to the railing for his own balance. It wouldn’t do for him to fall when he was trying to help...what would Washington think when he joined them? The ladies let themselves be helped into the boat in short order…crying Mrs. Jenkins, stout Mrs. Phillips who always reminded Alexander of a schoolteacher, funny Mrs. Palmer— _ Kitty, please, sweetheart _ —who was on her wedding trip and whose belly was already swollen. They all took only what they could carry, and Alexander was pleased and proud to hand them into the lifeboat.

He was less proud when Arnold plucked him from the railing and tossed him into the boat.

“Wait,” he said, “put me down, Arnold, you have no right.” But it was too late, he landed roughly, narrowly missing Mrs. Palmer’s lap, and it knocked the wind out of him.

“We have to go,” said Arnold, jumping in after him and helping him sit upright, “there’s no time.”

He couldn’t breathe. His eyes stung, and he couldn’t tell whether it was from smoke or tears. “I’m not leaving him, I can’t, I promised, let go of me!” They hit the water and Alexander looked back at the ship, half of which didn’t seem to be visible anymore and the other half was--oh, God, it was burning, Washington was going to burn to death or drown or both and Alexander had left him, hadn’t even asked after him.

“Kid, your dad would want you to be safe, and anyway he can handle himself, I’m sure he can.” Alexander tried to look for the other lifeboats, hoping he could spot Washington in one of them, he’d be sick but would…

No. He couldn’t afford fantasy anymore. Washington was alone on a burning ship and about to die, and the ladies carried him farther away with every stroke of the oars.

“No,” Alexander said, “you don’t understand, he’s sick, out of his senses, he doesn’t know what’s going on around him, we have to get him, I won’t leave him, I won’t leave my dad!” He kicked and screamed, and once even bit, but Arnold held fast to him,and he was no match for the strength of the other man’s arms.

“No, let me go!” Alexander screamed, trying to jump out of the boat, but Mrs. Palmer was too quick for him, adding her strength to Arnold’s, and though he could strike out at a gentleman he could never hurt a lady, nor even risk it. He was forced to be still. “Please,” he whispered, but they ignored him.

A strange glow suffused Arnold’s features, and Alexander realized it was from the flames. The Necessity burned, oddly beautiful in the darkness, hopefully with enough light that someone would notice and come and find them. The ship was still upright, but listing in the water. Not the side their cabin was on, there was still time, Washington was still above water and maybe he had managed to make it out, but Alexander knew even as he thought it that it was foolishness. Even if Alexander could swim back he probably wouldn’t make it in time, he wasn’t a strong enough swimmer, couldn’t help, he was useless and would only get them both killed. Would Washington burn or drown? Had he called for Alexander? Did he wonder at the end why Alexander had abandoned him?

“He was all I had left,” Alexander whispered, choking on a sob.

“Fuck it,” Arnold said, and threw Alexander his oar. “You have to get them safely to shore, Master Washington, do you understand? You are their protector now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, and then had to hold on for dear life as Arnold jumped out of the boat, and was gone under the black water. Alexander cried out, but soon enough Arnold’s head broke the surface.

“What the hell are you doing?” Alexander yelled.

“I’ll tell him you made it off!” Arnold called back. “Don’t make a liar of me, I don’t want to go to all this trouble only to have to deal with him when we can’t find you. Got it?”

And then he ducked his head under the water and began swimming toward the conflagration. To Colonel Washington.

Alexander, who was not given to either despair or fury, felt both then. Arnold had little hope of rescue, either for himself or Washington, he must have known that even better than Alexander did, and had done it anyway. And for what, when Alexander himself couldn’t seem to die, even though all evidence suggested it would be better if he did?

_ Keep moving.  _ He could not let the waves take them.


	10. you're on your own (awesome. wow.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are warnings for this chapter. They include:  
> -implied offscreen sex work involving minors  
> -attempted kidnapping  
> -discussion of slavery and of torture inflicted on slaves  
> -a general warning for child neglect  
> -period-typical racism on the part of our POV character

All of a sudden, there was quiet.

Alexander couldn't remember the last time it had been quiet. After…everything, the ship, the lightning, the waves reaching out from the tiny lifeboat to swallow them up…he'd lost his hearing, a little, but that hadn't left him in silence. Instead it was like a roaring in his ears all the time that never eased up, not even to let him sleep or speak.

At first he had believed nothing was wrong. He'd just been through a great shock, one he was lucky to survive, everyone said so. And a port was always noisy, as he knew from the islands but had found was even more true here on the mainland, where everything was so much larger. Unsettlingly large, in fact—he'd often thought of St. Croix as a tiny prison, one which couldn't contain him and that he would burst from by force, but now, among strangers, he felt small and insignificant. The sheer number of people, and even the buildings, threatened to overwhelm him. So he had paid no mind to the roaring in his ears, thinking there was nothing amiss. Until Mrs. Jenkins, the most resourceful and practical of the trio of ladies, had secured them lodging—some business about a cousin's friend's sister being married to an innkeeper, Alexander hadn't paid attention to her conference with the others. And he crossed the threshold of the inn, and the noise hadn't lessened.

He'd frozen, for just a moment, until Mrs. Phillips ushered him into the main room in her brusquely kind way, but he did not answer her concerned inquiry after his health. All of their questions seemed like they were being directed at someone else, some child. Someone's child, who was missed, and who would be looked for.

Which Alexander wasn't, and probably never had been. He'd accepted as much during their hours on the sea, rowing frantically for a shore he'd never seen while knowing Colonel Washington was likely dead. A true son would have gone back for his father, or at least had the decency to die with him of his grief. But Alexander couldn't bring himself to give up, even though he was cold and every muscle ached from his efforts, even though he was delirious and dizzy from hunger and his tongue was thick and fuzzy with thirst. Mrs. Palmer, who was the bravest and the best singer of them, sang to remind them to keep their spirits up, and though Alexander didn't know any of her songs he almost thought she was his mother, could hear her English words in Rachel Hamilton's lilting French, and it made him cry with longing, which the ladies mistook for fear.

He should go to her, he remembered thinking. Go to where she was, and Colonel Washington would soon be. Maybe they wouldn't be too disappointed in him for how he'd failed, maybe they would be happy to see him. It would be easy enough to let himself fall out of the rickety little boat and slip under the waves.

But he didn't. Not during that terrifying night, and not in the days after, when they reached land and he was thrust into a loud and confusing world he didn't understand. Some of the other sailors and passengers had been there waiting for them, and afterward more trickled in, including all three of the ladies' husbands. Alexander knew he should have been gratified to see their reunions with those they loved, having been appointed their protector and having worked hard to help them get to safely, but when Mr. Palmer wrapped his arm around his lady and placed his hand on the gentle swell of her belly in a gesture of possession that somehow encompassed both woman and child, he could not help a sort of sick rage. Someone asked him if he was all right, which he thought was the most ridiculous and patronizing question he'd ever had put to him, in a long line of them.

Of course he was all right. He had made it, hadn't he? That was all he'd ever wanted and all someone like him had the right to ask for: survival. He'd made it here by his own wits and his own strength, against the odds. And he'd been useful, he'd helped save people. Who in his circumstances would have the temerity to ask for anything more?

The ringing in his ears didn't stop. It seemed to take on language, speak to him in words:  _ you killed him, you killed them both.  _ He found the air inside the tavern too close and stuffy, and thought if he ran out maybe he could get some air, but out there it just seemed louder and brighter.

He ran. He didn't know where he was going or if anyone followed him, but he couldn't be there with them. He didn't know how long he ran for—hours, maybe, or days—he was vaguely aware that he had to stop and find a place to curl up and sleep more than once, in back alleys or on benches, he didn't know where or why and did not care. Even in his fragmented dreams the roaring followed, became the storm and the waves, from which he already knew he could never escape. It had taken Washington and would take him too.  _ You killed him,  _ they told him,  _ and you'll come to join him soon. _ He had to wake up, had to run from the waves, and so he did.

Until they stopped. And there was quiet.

Alexander Hamilton blinked. Looked down at himself. And realized three things.

  1. He was in the worst physical shape of his life. His clothes, now, were frayed tatters that looked like something a ragpicker's child might wear, and Alexander felt a pang of grief as he remembered how Washington had chosen them with such care. His breeches were torn, and he was bleeding from several cuts to his leg, which he had no recollection of ever receiving. He was filthy, hungry, and thirsty, and ever since the ship his throat hurt and it somehow felt like he never got enough air in his lungs when he breathed.
  2. He had no money or material resources, and no connections in this land that would help him establish any.
  3. He had no idea where he was. When he ran all he could figure out was that he had to get away from the harbor, and so he'd picked a direction and blindly struck out. Now he could see nothing around him but a dusty road and some seedy-looking buildings.



In short, he was in worse trouble than he'd ever been in, trouble that made his fear at signing the contract of indenture, and the subsequent one of he didn't know what with Washington, look like child's play. At least Arnold and Washington had been bound to look after him, in their way. Now he was alone.

The weight of that knowledge led him to stagger to the side of the road, where he had to sit down for a minute. Just for a minute, until he got his bearings. He nearly collapsed to the ground, and the cuts near his knee exploded into bright, hot pain, from which he could not help but whimper.

He placed his hand over the cut to try and stop the bleeding, fumbled blindly in his pockets for a handkerchief he no longer possessed. He found only a crumpled-up wad of paper, which he left in its place as it would obviously do him no good, this was stupid.

All right. This would be fine. Maman always said when you had little, like he did, the only thing to do was take inventory, and figure out what you did have, for only then could you begin to improve your lot.

What did he have? The remainder of his clothing, which was at least a start—he tore a bit of fabric from his ruined shirt that could serve as a bandage until he got a new one. And, he realized with a start—he did have some connections: his fellow survivors, and the sailors of the  _ Necessity,  _ at least the ones who still lived. Surely it had not been so long that they had all gone home, or found everything and everyone they needed. Maybe one of them could find him a job, something he could do for a little while until he figured out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

He could almost hear Washington say it.  _ You should be in school, young man. _ Which was a joke, no respectable school would take him even before this catastrophe, and now Washington wasn't even here, he'd left Alexander just like everybody else did, just like Alexander had always known he would….

But no. Washington wasn't the one who had done the leaving. Not this time.

"Hello, sweetheart." A man crouched down in front of him, in fine clothes like the ones Washington used to wear...too fine for a neighborhood like this, Alexander realized, taking in the ramshackle buildings that surrounded them. His hair under its wig was the color of fresh straw, and his eyes were blue and friendly. He smiled wider than Washington ever had. "Are you all right? You look like you could use a hand, if you don't mind my saying so."

Alexander felt a chill run down his spine. "I'm all right, sir," he said, barely able to speak his throat was so dry.

"You're a very agreeable young man, aren't you? Listen, why don't I help you come inside? I've an establishment near here. I could give you a drink, and something to eat. Have a doctor look at those cuts of yours. What do you say?"

Doctors were expensive. "Doctors are expensive," Alexander blurted out, like a halfwit. "I'd have to—I can't pay you back, I…"

The man's smile grew wider. "Oh, you wouldn't need to worry about that, sweetie. I'd just be helping you out like any friend would. And then maybe, when you're doing a bit better, you could help me out too, how's that?"

Well, he was really thirsty, and he had to trust somebody sometime, didn't he? It was arguable that his lack of trust was what had landed him in this mess in the first place. And he really needed water. And food, and rest. He wasn't an idiot, and he knew he couldn't last much longer without them.

"H-help you like how?" There, that was prudent the way Washington always said he should be, getting the other person to state his terms clearly.

"You don't need to worry about that," the man said again. "I'm sure if we put our heads together we could figure something out, couldn't we?" He reached out to take Alexander by the hand.

No, this was really bad, this was exactly what Washington had warned him against— _ watch out for vague terms, son, _ he'd said,  _ that's how they get you to agree to things you never thought were on the table in the first place. If a man is cagey, walk away, you don't want to do business with that sort.  _ Alexander jerked back and dodged, offering no word of explanation as he ran again, with all his might.

"Hey, wait, come back here, you little…"

Alexander didn't intend to stick around to be insulted. He didn't even take the split second to look back and check whether or not he was being pursued. Maybe the man's offer was sincere--how would he be able to tell? But he thought back to his mother, and the many times they had taken inventory together, just the two of them, so they could improve their lot.

_ What are the last three things you have, petit? _ she would ask him, after he had helped her count all the money and the assets, and listed every bit of credit they had, every favor they could possibly trade away.

And he would wait for her to tell him, because he liked how she said it.  _ Always, you have your wits, and your gut, and your heart, _ she would say.  _ No one will ever take away those things, and as long as you have them, all is not lost. _

And Alexander's wits and gut and heart were all screaming  _ no. _

He ran for a long time, or maybe he only thought it was a long time when every step was agony and he was already dizzy. Maybe he had only limped a few steps and the man was right there, just waiting for him to fail, waiting for him to fall. He was a fool to think he could go on any longer, he was a weak selfish idiot who had willingly given up every good thing that had ever happened to him, he would certainly die soon if he didn't get help, which was probably nothing more than he deserved for what he had done to Colonel Washington and Mr. Arnold both—

He tripped and stumbled. Couldn't break his fall with his hand, he was so weak, so ended up sprawling facedown into the dirt, and it knocked the breath from his lungs. Stunned, he cried out from the pain and received a mouthful of dirt. To his shame, he didn't spit it out, but instead sucked on it to see if he could glean the slightest bit of moisture from it.

_ I can go no lower,  _ he thought.  _ This is the end. _ But even with that knowledge, he felt something approaching joy as the mud moistened his parched throat.

"Hey," said a voice. Soft, gentle. "Hey there."

Not his pursuer. A woman. A woman and therefore more likely to be safe. Alexander rolled over, wincing as he did so—he didn't think anything was sprained or broken, but he really was banged up. He stared up at the woman, who was crouching down at his side. A Negro, she was, and really old, even older than Maman had been when she—

"You look like you're a long way from home, little one," she said.

"Water," said Alexander, half a sob. "I need water, please, ma'am, I'm so thirsty."

"Shh, honey, we're going to get you fixed right up." And without asking, she helped him up, put her arm around him so he could walk, and led him away. Alexander's wits and gut and heart were silent about the matter, or maybe they were just too tired to resist.

Her name, he learned, was Sophie. She spoke gently to him as they made their limping way down the road, to a cluster of huts. She led him inside one, barely bigger than a room, and found a stool for him to sit on, and give him water to drink and some sort of soup that he had no idea of what it was, but which was probably the best thing Alexander had ever tasted. She cleaned his leg up and gave a poultice for it, and a drink to soothe his throat. And throughout all of this, she asked him no questions.

Sophie was neither slave nor quite free, but had been 'given her time,' which pretty much meant she could do as she liked without the masters having said they lost her.  She grinned from ear to ear as she said it, like the whole thing was a huge joke that Alexander was supposed to understand. To Alexander this practice made no sense from a business standpoint, but he held his tongue, and she told him about how she made a fair bit of money from her weaving, how she was teaching her granddaughters so they would have a trade when they were free, and could support themselves without being caught in bondage once more.

Alexander had no idea why she was being so nice to him. His family's slaves were nice, of course, but they were his so it didn't count. Most other Negroes treated him with polite suspicion at best and hostility at worst, even the free ones. But Sophie was gentle like their own Rebecca had been, and kind like something entirely different. Like a mother. He knew she must not have much that was her own, so it puzzled him why she would be so kind as to share it when she asked nothing from him in return, not even his name.

"I should not ask," she said after everything, "but what brings you here? Where is it that you mean to go?"

He knew what he ought to say.  _ I'm a stranger in this land but I can work, and I'm clever. I'm looking for somebody to give me a job, does your master know anyone maybe? I would be much obliged to you. _

"I'm waiting for someone," he found himself saying. "Our ship was lost, and my dad…I have to find out what happened to him."  _ My dad  _ was not quite accurate, but he didn't think this woman needed to hear the entire story of  _ the man who insists he's my dad despite all evidence to the contrary and every dictate of common sense. _

He steeled himself for pity, or for ridicule. But he never expected the ferocity of her response. "Forget him, boy," she said in a tone of voice Alexander had never heard from a slave, one that would be more suited to someone like Colonel Washington—a tone of utter authority that demanded obedience.

He should reprimand her for insolence, but he knew he was in no position to do any such thing. "What—what do you mean?"

"If you've any sense at all, you'll mourn him as dead and move on, you hear me?"

"No," said Alexander, "you don't understand, there is still hope, I don't know for sure that he's gone…he could be…he could be looking for me, he said he'd always come find me."

"He had no business making such a promise," said Sophie, and there was real anger in her voice that Alexander didn't understand. "Listen, boy. My son ran too. You think I want him to come find me? No. I pray on my knees every day that he never comes anywhere near me again, because that means he maybe made it out. Your dad cares a whit for you, he'll pray the same."

Shame swept through him as he realized what it was she was implying. Oh. She thought he was a runaway. She thought he was one of  _ them.  _ He felt a stirring of the old anger at the tired taunts of the other children— _ I bet you're a quadroon, your mama fucked a field hand, didn't she, I saw her take it from three of them last night. _

Luckily, she misread the look on his face. "He wouldn't want you to get yourself killed doing something stupid, boy, and that's what you'll end up as—killed, or worse."

Alexander knew very well what  _ worse  _ was. Dad had brought him and Jamie to see it done lots of times, after all—said it was every man's duty to help keep order.  _ Worse  _ was amputations, mutilation, spiked iron collars that would cut a slave's throat if he tried to run again. Alexander had cried the first time he saw one of those fitted on a slave, and both Dad and Jamie taunted him as a weak-hearted baby. "I'm not…" he began, in order to correct her misapprehension.

"Afraid?" she asked. "You should be. Listen, boy, if you want a shot—a real shot—at getting out—you go to the Healys' Annemarie, or the Laurens's Matilda. Understand? They know how to make people disappear. I can't say more—don't know more—than that."

After that she seemed to have no taste for conversation, like she couldn't get Alexander out the door fast enough. She gave him clothing—her son's, she said, the son she hoped never to see again—and wouldn't hear a word against him taking it. She went outside so Alexander could change, smiling a little at his modesty, and Alexander rid himself of his torn, filthy, bloodstained clothes, though his heart sank a little to lose one more thing.

When he peeled off the remnants of his shirt, he noticed a small weight there, and shook it out, but it wouldn't budge. Curious, he turned the sleeve inside out.

There was coin there, sewn into the sleeve with the tough, indelicate stitching favored by soldiers...no ornament or style, but it would do. Alexander ripped it apart and found—not much. Enough for a few small meals, maybe, or a night's lodging.

All at once, he was so angry at Washington he could barely breathe. Wasn't that just like the man, to leave him just a little, but not enough to make his own way? Not enough to plan for the worst? He knew, because he seemed to be getting better and better at knowing Washington's mind, that he would have spread the money out among their clothes, so that they always had a little bit with them, and never too much, so they wouldn't be robbed. Which meant the rest of the money was on the bottom of the sea, doing nobody any good.

_ Be fair, _ he told himself.  _ He'd have no reason to suspect you so faithless as to abandon him. _

After he'd changed into the new clothes, he reached into his old shirt pocket for the crumpled-up piece of paper he'd noticed earlier. He couldn't say what made him do it—maybe he just couldn't bear to lose anything else, not by his own choice.

It was the last page of their contract. Alexander's eyes scanned it in disbelief, that it should have made the journey with him when his books and clothes and funds were all gone.

_ This agreement may be terminated without notice,  _ he read,  _ in the case of Negligence or Cruelty on the part of the party of the first part, such dereliction of duty to consist in… _

Alexander's hand shook. All of a sudden, he realized what was missing from the contract. What Washington had omitted deliberately.

He'd left no way out for himself. There were several ways Alexander could leave if he chose, but no grounds for Washington to terminate their agreement. Washington was canny. There was no way he would make such an error.

Which meant it was not an error. Washington had wanted him to stay. Forever.

Alexander folded the piece of paper, as carefully as he could. He took half the handful of coin and laid it on the pile of discarded clothing, where Sophie would see it. Then he walked out.

Sophie was nowhere to be found, which didn't surprise Alexander.  _ She wants me to know I don't have to do anything back,  _ he realized.  _ Like he did. _

He set off, back the way he had come, toward the harbor. There was just enough left, he thought, to place an advertisement in the newspaper, saying he'd lost someone. Rich men read newspapers—a rich man arriving in unfamiliar country would definitely do it, to get the lay of the land if nothing else. And if Washington happened to find something there he could use—well, he was good with maps, wasn't he? He'd told Alexander so.


	11. the only way i can protect my legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scioscribe, Ossapher, The-Everqueen, and Fmajorhell all helped with this one, and I want to thank them sincerely.
> 
> But I NEED you to know. This is all Mins's fault.

After the third paper he approached, Alexander realized he needed to change tactics. He’d dealt with newspapers before, of course, back in Christiansted—Mr. Cruger would wish to place an advertisement, when he had slaves and other goods at auction, and often he would have Alexander draft the notice and send them off to be printed, the task being too beneath his notice otherwise. He knew one had to be concise in one’s wording, so there would be space on the page, and he knew one had to be entertaining, so the editor would think what one had to say would be of interest to his audience. But the first secretary he spoke to took one look at his clothes and had him thrown out before even letting him speak, and the second one told him he was sorry, but what Alexander could offer didn’t make it worth printing his notice, not even for one day. The third newspaper wouldn’t let him in the door.

He was running out of options, running out of time, and didn’t know what he could possibly do to increase his chances. Shipwrecks were interesting. Alexander knew that. Every time a ship had failed to come into the harbor as scheduled, there would be speculation—what might have happened, which souls were lost, and most importantly, what merchants might be ruined as a result, waiting for cargo, human or otherwise, that would never come. When often as not the ship came in after all, a victim of nothing more sinister than unfavorable winds, people were almost disappointed. One man’s loss was another’s opportunity, and if a ship was gone, that meant there would be a whole bunch of impatient dealers amenable to other proposals, with orders they needed filled and fast. Any information on survivors should be of interest to a man of Washington’s class, the kind of man who would read the papers Washington would read.

_But I’m not the sort of cargo that matters_. Alexander knew that, he wasn’t a fool. Plucky orphan boys weren’t news. There were always lots of those, and there would be lots more after the current batch died or grew up. He was not the sort of treasure men went to sea to find, or curry favors for his safe return. He was, bluntly, replaceable.

But perhaps it was not so for Washington. Perhaps Washington would want him back, even after everything. He had taken Alexander back before when he made mistakes, after all.

_It’s not the same, though,_ he thought. That was misbehavior, the lapses of a disobedient little boy, best handled exactly the way Washington had done…by confining him to quarters and sending him to bed with stern admonishments not to do it again. This…this was the equivalent of spitting in Washington’s face before pushing him overboard with his own hands, and Alexander wouldn’t blame Colonel Washington one bit if he decided Alexander wasn’t worth finding. If there were the slightest chance that he was alive, that he was looking, though, Alexander owed him an apology.

_The contract says he has to take me back._ But Alexander didn’t dare hold him to that. Washington had written the terms when he still had reason to assume Alexander bargained in good faith. They could not apply now, and the only honorable thing for Alexander to do would be to release him from them, or rewrite them extensively so he could never again take advantage of Washington in this way. If Washington was even alive. Which he might not be, Alexander had to remember. He could easily be dead, him and Mr. Arnold both, and Alexander could not afford to count on rescue.

But he had to try. He owed Washington at least that much.

Which meant he had to find a strategy. He had to do his research and figure out where Washington would be most likely to look, and spend his resources there. He could ill-afford to go running indiscriminately around town asking if anyone had run into a tall, broad-shouldered man, and he couldn’t publish something everywhere. He’d spent a couple of days trying to figure out which was the most popular, hiding in corners and eating from the scraps people left at taverns—and oh, the shame in that burned him from the inside, but at least it wasn’t stealing yet, after which point he was sure he would never be able to look Colonel Washington in the face again. But the paper he saw tossed aside most often wouldn’t speak with him, and neither would the other two whose names he mentioned, and he knew he was doing this wrong, his head wasn’t clear and he was scared and making poor decisions the way Washington always said he did. He had to do better, be better, and quickly—he knew he couldn’t go on this way much longer. Something had to give, and Alexander feared it would be him.

Not for the first time, Alexander cursed himself for not having gotten a look at the ship’s log before all of this happened. If he had seen the ship’s manifest, he would have known who was expecting the _Necessity_ , and would have been able to find out if that company had any contacts here. Surely they would be on the lookout for survivors if so, if only to figure out how to recoup their profits. It would be the first place he’d go if he were Colonel Washington. The first place he should have gone immediately himself. Why hadn’t he done this simple, necessary thing that he’d done many times before? It wasn’t like he couldn’t have charmed the captain into showing him, or failing that, pretended he didn’t know about it already and asked Arnold to teach him how to read it as part of his future service. What had been behind this unforgivable lapse?

_It’s because you thought you were a little kid again_ , he told himself savagely. _You thought he could take care of everything and you didn’t help him, so you left him to die because you weren’t careful enough._

He had to hold back tears, and he swallowed down the lump in his throat and didn’t let it come back up. _No,_ he thought, _don’t you dare cry. You don’t deserve to cry. You can cry when you’ve made things right again_. If there was any way to do that at all.

He needed money. Enough money to advertise, and look respectable when he pleaded his case. So perhaps he should stop this search for a few days or weeks while he did odd jobs and saved up. That seemed like the most prudent course, only…what if Washington was still sick? What if he needed help? Perhaps Mr. Arnold was with him, but he could have been injured getting off the ship, and there was no reason to expect them to stay together, even if one or both of them were looking for him. If he was sick, there was no time to waste.

Or perhaps Washington would make for Virginia Colony right away. That was what he’d told Alexander he wanted him to do, before Alexander rejected the proposition. He had been gone for months now, since the spring, and would surely wish to be there for what he could of the harvest. Alexander had made him take enough time away from his responsibility already, and he would need to get back to Virginia with all haste. Perhaps he would expect Alexander to meet him there, and they could make their way to Mount Vernon together the way they had originally planned. Which meant he was losing time by hanging around here, and he needed to get himself in order to attempt a journey. Only a few things stood in his way, like his lack of funds, lack of access to transport, and the fact that he didn’t even know where Virginia Colony was. And what if he made it there and Washington did not? There was no way Alexander could face Washington’s widow and his real children. No way they would ever look on the bastard who took their father away from them with anything but hatred and scorn. Alexander couldn’t blame them for that.

If Washington was sick here, Alexander had to stay in one place, so it would be easier for the man to find him. If Washington was hale, and on his way home, Alexander was honor-bound to try and join him there. And if Washington was dead, it didn’t matter at all what Alexander did.

Since he had no way of knowing which was true, he had to choose an assumption from which he could begin to operate. The last one was unthinkable, so Alexander decided he would put it from his mind and refuse to consider it until and unless he must. The second was likelier, but riskier, and even if it was true, Washington could send for him once he reached Mount Vernon. So he would assume the first was true, and he had to help Washington with all speed, but not tax his own strength or confuse matters even more by running off.

He needed money, and had nothing to trade for it. He had skills, but no way of proving them to anyone, and the only knowledge he had that would be of any value was what Sophie had inadvertently revealed to him—the names of slaves who would help people get away. He considered it, finding the Healys or the Laurenses, and telling them what he was sure they would be interested to know. That would net him coin aplenty, and even more precious than that, would make him owed a favor, both of which were capital he could use to find Washington. He thought Washington might even be proud of him for his resourcefulness. He would certainly rather Alexander did that than that he begged, or stole.

The only question was whether Washington would be right to prefer this course of action, and though it pained him to admit it, Alexander didn’t think so. Runaway slaves were a serious matter, and on the one hand it was his duty as a gentleman to report anything that might be a threat to safety and security. But on the other, he knew he would never have come into that knowledge if he had not misled Sophie, even by accident, and to sell her out after her kindness was the worst sort of betrayal. He knew what would be done to her, to Annemarie, to Matilda and so many others, if they were ever found out. He had never been sure if he believed in hell, in a pit of fire that you burned in for all eternity if God was mad at you, but he knew that if it existed, he would deserve to be sent there for that.

So he would keep doing what he was doing, keep saving his money and trying to find a paper, and in the meantime pray that Colonel Washington would be in any state to read. He slept that night under a park bench, and managed to wake up on his own without being kicked awake by the sort of man who had no sympathy for vagrant children, so he was almost cheerful.

And then, finally, _finally_ —he had a stroke of luck. It was a smaller broadsheet that agreed to see him, and Alexander was dubious, at first, that it could work—what if Washington overlooked it? But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and even if he did there was the possibility that someone else would see it and pass his message along to Washington. That possibility was the only hope Alexander had, so he would cling to it.

The printer was kindly, an older man with more silver than black in his beard— _I’ve a grandson about your age_ , he said to Alexander. But there was a steely glint in his eye all the same when he talked business, and Alexander’s heart sank when he said he’d be doing him a kindness even to print his message for one day.

“But I need at least three,” Alexander said. That would give Washington time to follow some leads, to gather his resources and come look for him if he wanted. Even to consider whether he wanted to retrieve Alexander after all—which, Alexander reminded himself, he had to respect if the answer was no.

“I can offer you two,” said the man, “and that’s final.”

Alexander didn’t dare risk being thrown out again, so he would take it and pray it would be enough.

Then there was the matter of how to address his inquiry. He could not say he was a son looking for his lost father, even if it would be more likely to win him sympathy from the public…he could not know what connections Colonel Washington had in this country, but there was no way he could risk damaging the colonel’s reputation with news about his illegitimate son. Even if Colonel Washington did eventually come get him and take him to Virginia, Alexander knew how this worked—he would be Washington’s ward, a friend of the family whom Washington and his wife agreed to raise out of the goodness of their hearts. No one would believe the story, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that everyone would agree to believe it so Washington wouldn’t lose stature among his fellows.

He was still dithering over this when the printer showed him the space he had to work with. It was nothing, hardly even enough for a few lines. How was he possibly to explain himself in the space of that tiny little box? The circumstances of their journey were so convoluted Alexander thought he would need half the paper to explain it even to himself. But the printer would not budge.

_What’s the most important thing?_ he asked himself. _Say that._

_Mr. W,_ he wrote, not wishing to reveal Washington to the world through mention of his rank.

_Am safe_ —was that true? He didn’t think it was true, but he had no wish to alarm Colonel Washington unduly while he was still recovering. He had made it ashore anyway, which had to count for something— _and hope the same for yourself and Mr. A._

He swallowed. The most important thing. He had to say it.

_I’m sorry I left. Forgive me if you can._

He had hardly any room left to plead with Washington to come get him, or even to tell him his whereabouts because he had nowhere to stay. He couldn’t say, _please let me try one more time._

_Yours always_ , he wrote, _AH._

His hand shook as he wrote, and he was glad the printer would convert his words to blocks of type, which could not betray his emotion in the same manner.

“If I should receive a response,” said the printer, “how shall I get word to you?”

This was not something Alexander had considered. Foolishly, it seemed—he had somehow managed to maintain a belief that Washington would somehow appear when Alexander needed him most. But of course that was ridiculous, he would need directions for Washington, and oh, but he was stupid, why hadn’t he stayed at their lodging with the ladies? It would have been way easier for Washington to find their group than for Alexander to find Washington and Arnold by himself.

“Where are you staying, son?” prompted the printer, gently.

Back when they were still on the ship, he would have said there was nothing he found more annoying than Washington calling him son. Now, it seemed, there was an even more vexing alternative: someone other than Washington daring to call him son.

_Don’t get angry at him._ The thought was in Washington’s voice. _He’s trying to help you._

“Um,” Alexander said. What could he say, _address all correspondence care of the park bench on the north side of the street?_ There were fewer rats there than under the one on the other side, but he somehow doubted Washington would be impressed by that rationale for his choice of abode.

The printer gave him a long look. There was that pity again, and Alexander found it no more welcome than it had been before. “My friend Mr. Holt owns a tavern a few streets south of here,” the printer said. “He might be willing to give you a place to sleep, should you do some work for him and cause no trouble. Might.”

“I won’t be trouble,” Alexander muttered, his face going hot with shame. “and I can work.”

“See you aren’t, and see you do. I’ll look for you there if I hear word.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Alexander, because there was nothing else he could say.

“Boy,” he said as Alexander turned to leave. “No promises, mind.”

“I get it,” said Alexander. _I know he’s probably dead, you don’t have to tell me yet again._

The tavern owner turned out to be a younger man who laughed to be addressed as Mr. Holt (“Billy, kid, come on, Mr. Holt is my dad.”) Alexander spared a moment to be resentful at all the dads who seemed to be running around—everyone seemed to have one. But then, Alexander had had two and managed to misplace both, so who was he to complain? But Billy gave him water to wash with, and a bit of bread and cheese left over from his customers, and a corner of floor to curl up on where he’d be out of the way. He didn’t get the sense there was much work for him to do, but he did chores and the servants were kind to him, and it would be good enough for a day or two. He met Billy’s many sisters, who all made much of him, and who together were enough of a distraction that Alexander did not look for Washington every time the door opened, but only did so about three out of every four times.

His message ran for two days with no word, and Alexander fought not to lose heart. Maybe it would take Washington a few days to see it, because someone else would pass it along, knowing the colonel was looking for him. Or maybe he had been stranded somewhere else, and was riding even now, desperately trying to reach Alexander…somehow, in Alexander’s mind, Washington was always impeccably dressed and had no trouble finding a mount of quality, even though he was probably as penniless as Alexander and still too sick to ride. Then the advertisement ran for a third day and Alexander was outraged.

“Billy,” he said, for Billy forbade the use of _sir_ or anything like it, “the printer said only two days.”

Billy shrugged. “Francis probably just found a little extra space in the paper is all. Happens sometimes. Don’t worry about it.”

“You have to tell him to stop, I can’t afford it.”

“Or I could tell him you said thanks and have that be the end of the matter, how’s that?”

Alexander almost objected again, but then he realized that maybe Providence had a hand here. If this were a story, it would be on the third day, the extra one he hadn’t paid for at all, that Washington would read his note. “Sure,” he said quietly. “Tell him I say thanks.”

On the fourth day there was neither advertisement nor response. Or the fifth, or the sixth, and eventually Alexander knew he could not stay. The crease between Billy’s eyebrows was getting more pronounced, and the portions Alexander received clearly weren’t coming out of leftovers—he was eating full meals which he either needed to pay for or honorably refuse, only he was so hungry….

Better he removed himself from the temptation. So on the morning of the seventh day, after helping to wash the dishes from the night before, he went around to the front of the bar and cleared his throat, holding out his hand for Billy to shake. “Thank you, so much, for everything,” he said. “I’ll be on my way now.”

“You know, there’s no rush, kid,” Billy said, looking uncomfortable. “You’ve been a big help, and the girls like having you around. You could always stay for a bit while you wait for your…whoever you’re waiting for.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes, and Alexander knew—Billy was doing all right, but not so all right that he could afford to feed another mouth indefinitely, and Alexander wasn’t useful enough to make up for what his upkeep would cost.

Which gave him an idea. “Hey, can I look at your account books?” he asked. “In exchange for staying another night, maybe?”

“You don’t have to,” Billy said. “As I said, you can stay however long you like.”

“No, I want to,” said Alexander. “If you will forgive me, I cannot help but notice you should be bringing in more than you are.”

His suspicions were correct. “This is a disgrace,” Alexander said. “I know you do more custom than this, so where’s it all going?”

Billy looked uneasy. “Can’t refuse a friend a drink, right?”

“Just how many friends do you have?”

“Oh, I know most everybody,” the man said lightly. Too lightly. “Cost of doing business, you know.”

“You have to actually do some business to do favors, though,” Alexander pointed out. “The question is, do you charge anyone at all?”

“I do!” said Billy, indignant. “But…one has obligations, you know, and sometimes you have to do certain things so life keeps running smoothly.”

“You have obligations to your creditors,” Alexander said, aghast. “It doesn’t matter whether you like someone. Your reputation rests on whether you’re a man of your word, not whether you’re nice or obliging to someone. Don’t you know that?”

“The better question is, how come you know that? You’re a kid. Has someone been saying you owe them something? Because like I said, I have friends. They could take care of that problem for you right quick.”

“No!” said Alexander, and then realized something. If Billy had that sort of friends, maybe they weren’t friends at all. Maybe Billy was the one being blackmailed. “Are you in trouble, is that why?”

Billy didn’t answer. Which meant Alexander had guessed right, which meant he needed to get out of there and fast, because the last thing he needed was to be someone else’s leverage, even someone who had been so kind to him.

He swallowed. _Remember your obligations_ , he told himself. _Be a man of your word._ “I should go,” he said once more. “Billy, if…someone should come looking for me, c-could you tell him that—that Alexander Washington of Virginia Colony would like very much to speak with him?” He tripped over the syllables of the name, so like his own but feeling oddly weighty in his mouth, like they belonged to a man of consequence and he was playing dress-up. “If he’s amenable, I mean, he doesn’t have to, I don’t wish to presume, please tell him he doesn’t have to see me if he doesn’t want to.”

“Virginia, huh,” said Billy. “You don’t sound very Virginian to me.” Alexander’s stomach turned, but then he saw the way the man’s mouth turned up at the corners.

“Just you wait,” Alexander said, and grinned back. “When you see me next, I shall be among the most prominent citizens of that country.”

“You know, I don’t doubt that,” Billy said. “So, Alexander Washington of Virginia, where should I tell this someone you are, if my own establishment no longer suits your taste? Easy,” he said, seeing how Alexander tensed at that. “I’m only joking, but I can’t give someone directions to you if I don’t know where you are.”

“I’m going to stay in the area for a bit,” Alexander said, his plan coming to him as he spoke. “I need to find work, so I can save money to…to go home.” _To bring him home,_ he thought. He’d been thinking of Washington as someone who would always have the resources necessary to find him, but maybe that wasn’t true. Washington was probably just as stranded and penniless as Alexander was, and might not even be able to make it home himself without Alexander’s assistance.

“Right, home to Virginia, where you’re obviously from. I get you. And what kind of work do you think you can get that will fund such a journey? I’d hire you myself, but you’ve just seen my accounts.”

“I have experience in shipping,” he said. “And a fair hand. I’m sure one of the firms around here could use even a temporary clerk, especially since I have experience in preparing human cargo for sale, that’s always valuable even for a shipment or two…” He trailed off.

Human cargo.

Human cargo like the slaves who had been on their ship, the ones Arnold had threatened to throw him down among. The slaves who had been chained down there, who would have had no way of climbing to the lifeboats and so were more helpless than even Washington would have been.

The slaves for whom he had not spared a single thought, during the wreck or since.

_Maybe a few managed to escape,_ he thought hopefully, but no, he could not permit himself fantasy any longer. He had checked the locks on slaves’ manacles more than once himself, after all. You couldn’t be too careful. He knew the slaves on the _Necessity_ would have had no chance to slip their bonds. They had been doomed from the start, and Alexander hadn’t cared.

He found himself gripping the bar for support. “What’s wrong, kiddo?” asked Billy, but Alexander was unable to speak.

“I-I have to go,” he gasped after he recovered his breath, and ran for the door.

“Wait, hold on, we need to make a plan for you—“ But Alexander pushed through the door and ran out to the back, falling to his knees and vomiting into the heap of midden. The smell of the refuse and his own leavings made him even sicker, and he retched some more until nothing could come up, not even bile.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew he couldn’t have saved the slaves any more than he could have saved Washington. Maybe if Washington had been hale, they could have rescued them together, but that would have meant abandoning Mrs. Palmer and her unborn child, an act just as evil.

_The captain and crew were responsible for the contents of the vessel,_ he reminded himself. _Not me. If there was fault there, surely it lay on their heads._

But…that Alexander hadn’t even thought about them. He hadn’t said to Arnold or the ladies or the crew, _maybe we should try to rescue the slaves_. The crew would have said no, he knew. They would take up too much room on the lifeboats, and then would probably escape anyway, so the investment would be lost no matter what. Why then should the lives of free people be risked? It made a certain kind of cruel sense.

But he hadn’t tried. Hadn’t even considered trying, which was worse. Hadn’t mourned the loss of their lives. Maman said slaves were people, and they deserved care in exchange for their freedom, which was why sometimes Ajax got food before he did, because Ajax didn’t have any choice about where he belonged. She’d said Alexander needed to always be kind to the people in bondage to him, and then they would repay him with faithful service. He’d wept when Ajax got taken along with the other slaves, because he didn’t know if brother Lavien would bother taking good care of him the way Alexander did. He doubted Lavien would remember Ajax’s favorite foods, or teach Ajax to read, or do some of his chores for him when he got tired.

_Ajax would hate me,_ he thought. _And Flora would hate me, and Rebecca would hate me, and Sophie would hate me, and they would be right_.

He forced himself to stand up on shaking legs. He’d thought he was good, not cruel like the others. He’d thought he was…better somehow. Worthy of a second chance, of…redemption, of being found. He’d thought that if Providence existed, it must surely be watching out for him, else how could he have survived thus far? But he knew better now.

_What makes you think you deserve to have a dad_? he thought to himself. _Did you ever even ask about Ajax’s dad, or was he a line in your account book that you thanked God you could use to balance out debt?_

He didn’t remember. Didn’t remember or had never bothered to know. He wasn’t sure which would be worse _. I’m sorry_ , he thought, to Ajax or Sophie or the slaves on the ship, or all of them at once.

He couldn’t do what he’d told Billy he would, he knew now. Could never allow himself to chain people up to be murdered by neglect. He couldn’t stop slavery and it would be foolish to do so anyway, but he decided then and there he would rather starve than continue as he had been anymore. He owed them that much.

Only it turned out starving was really hard, especially over a long time. Alexander was used to going hungry, but he wasn’t used to having to do it outside, when no one saw him or cared about him, and with no prospect of anything becoming better. He begged for his bread more than once, and saw people’s eyes slide right past him, as though they did not wish to see he was there. He stole once, and discovered how quickly he became visible again, as people chased him—it was only by sheer luck that he managed to hide. Afterward he cried, not from fear but from shame, for he knew how disappointed Washington would be if he could see him now. _You’re a gentleman, young man_ , he would say. _Behave as such. I am ashamed of your conduct._

Then Alexander cried even harder, for he could imagine what Washington might say after that. _That doesn’t mean I don’t still love you. Correct your error, and apologize, and the matter will be ended_. Washington had never yet beaten him, but Alexander knew he would for such a grievous offense. He was not the sort of man who could spare the rod in such circumstances. But Alexander thought he might be gentle afterward, and not hold his misdeeds against him, as…had happened to him before.

But Washington wasn’t there, and Alexander could not find him without resources, if he even lived anymore to find, and if he wanted to be found at all. So Alexander had to decide what to do.

He could go back to Billy, maybe, but that would only solve his problem for a night or two, and would bring him no closer to finding out what had become of Washington. He could steal again, and betray himself that way, or exchange what skills he had for comfort and betray himself in another. Would it be worse? He didn’t know.

_If you knew you would never see him again, what would you do?_ he asked himself, and went through his options one by one. He could stow away on a ship back to Christiansted, maybe, see if his brother would still welcome him. Or…and his heart leaped at the thought…he could find his dad. Not Washington, but his real dad, and then together they could go back and get Jamie, and they would be a family again like before.

Only—he didn’t know if James Hamilton wanted to be found, at least not yet. He hadn’t come looking for them like he said he would when things blew over, so maybe things hadn’t blown over and Alexander should stop getting underfoot. Dad could come find him in America— _the way Washington found me in St. Croix_ , his traitorous mind supplied—when he was ready. Besides, even the thought of going back to the islands made his chest go all tight and funny, like it was harder to breathe, like he’d be trapped forever.

So St. Croix was out. There would be no going back for him from this point on, he decided. Only forward. But forward where?

He could stay here, but he had no one, no connections, and in his mind he knew this would always be the place where he’d lost Washington. He could, perhaps, make for Virginia Colony after all, and seek out Washington’s widow in accordance with the colonel’s last request. But he’d already decided there was no way he could face Mrs. Washington, not after most likely being responsible for her husband’s death. What on earth would he even say to her? He, who talked too much, could think of no possible words. So Virginia was out too, forever. Where then could he go?

He knew little of the cities in the colonies. He knew from talk at work that Philadelphia was the center of commerce, so perhaps he should go there. He liked the thought of being in the middle of the action, instead of shunted off to the sidelines the way he had been for his whole entire life. But even here was so big, so overwhelming, and from what knowledge he’d been able to glean operated almost entirely on connections of the kind which he didn’t have here. Perhaps it would be best to go somewhere that wasn’t so established. Somewhere on the rise, where he could rise too.

_New York City._ It came to him in a flash of inspiration. Beekman and Cruger wanted to expand there, they would surely write him a letter of introduction. They had told him it was not such an established port as elsewhere, that it wanted to grow, that it was…hungry. An odd term to use, but perhaps he could fit there.

But Washington…should he mourn him, and move on, as Sophie said?

Alexander decided he would not. He decided he would believe, for once, against all evidence, that Washington was alive and safe. He was either on his way to his Mount Vernon, or happily ensconced there preparing for winter, and one day, when Alexander was a man grown, they would see each other again. Alexander would make his apology in person, and Washington would say he’d grown into a fine young man, and then they would be…whatever they would be.

In the meantime, Alexander Hamilton had work to do.

He found another tavern to stay at, obviously less shabby than Billy’s but somehow rougher, and actually managed to negotiate a small wage along with his few days’ board. He swept and cleaned and was polite to customers and kept his mouth shut, for the tavern owner—who was definitely _Mister_ and _Sir_ and nothing else—said he’d be thrown out on his ass if there were trouble. Alexander worked so late and so long he didn’t have time to make any.

The day after he arrived, as Alexander was clearing away some dishes, he saw a small anxious knot of customers all poring over the same document. He tried to peek over discreetly to see what they were doing without drawing attention to himself, but the nicest-dressed of them noticed, and waved him over.

“Hey, kid, have you read this? It’s amazing, c’mon, check it out.” Alexander, who missed a friendly face and could sorely use some gossip, looked around for the tavern owner. Finding no sign of him, he dared to creep over and steal a look at what they were reading. He’d thought it was a broadsheet, but no—it was a pamphlet, on finer paper, individually produced and several sheets thick.

“Amazing is hardly the word I would use to describe it, Jack, it’s _sad_ ,” said one of his companions, a bit older and more sober in every sense of the word. “I take no pleasure in watching someone ruin his own life, and nor should you.”

“It’s his _son_ ,” said a third man. “Would you not do the same, do anything, if your child was missing?”

“But he can’t even know for sure the boy is his. What about his other children, I ask you? What of his poor wife, who will be savaged? It’s probably spread beyond the border by now, he said he would distribute it widely,” said the second man, who looked like he’d bitten into something foul. “The man’s made himself vulnerable to every hunter and grifter in America, just looking to cash in on heartbreak, and for what?”

Alexander was oddly cheered by the thought of someone else’s life being ruined for a change. “Wait, what happened?”

“Some hoity-toity Virginian managed to misplace his byblow—excuse me, his natural son and chosen heir—in a shipwreck, and thought the natural and reasonable response to this was to lose his goddamn mind and tell the entire world about it. It’s the greatest thing I have ever seen in my life. Take a look!”

“What.” Alexander grabbed for the pamphlet, which, he thought, had better not be what he thought it was—but the second man stopped him.

“That’s not for your eyes to see, boy,” he said. “There are…indiscretions…mentioned…”

“Oh, come on,” said Jack, “so the guy fucked a whore in the Caribbean, everyone does it, it’s not like he went on for pages and pages about how good she was…though she must have been, if he’s going to all this trouble to rescue her brat.”

“Who says the brat even wants to be found, though,” chimed in another man who wasn’t even sitting at Jack’s table. “If I were him, I would run the hell away from this guy. That’s probably what he did, come to think of it—obviously the man’s unstable and the kid used the wreck as an excuse.”

“Kid’s not stupid, if the description is anything to go by,” said Jack. “You know what I would do, Andy, if I were him? I’d put up with it for the money. Obviously he’ll get whatever he wants, since his father is so desperate for his safe return.” Jack made a noise like fake blubbering, and forced his voice into a mocking falsetto. “ _Come home to me, my dearest Child, all is forgiven…”_

“No,” snapped Alexander. “You know what, I don’t like your tone. Do none of you have anything better to do than sit here and mock a man who has never done the slightest bit to deserve it? Look to your own character, gentlemen, before you malign that of another.”

“How do you know we’re maligning him? He could have beaten and starved the kid daily, for all we know—“

“Colonel Washington would _never_ —“

“Nah, that type is always like that,” Jack said confidently. “It’s always the loudest ones about how loving and kind they are who turn out to be the real pieces of work. You’re buying into the dude’s bullshit, I bet the kid hates him but will come around to using him like his slut of a mother did—“

After that Jack didn’t get to say much else, due to Alexander flinging Andy’s tankard into his face, which became him a lot more with blood gushing out of it. Alexander got one moment of pure, vicious satisfaction before the man lunged at him. He dodged, but ran straight into another grip, and the tavern owner rushed out, his eyes cold, and then Alexander was somehow sprawled on the ground outside the door, not quite sure how he had gotten there.

He lay there for a moment, blinking the dirt out of his face, trying to absorb what had just happened. He was locked out, it was cold, he hurt, and he hadn’t managed to get his wages before being thrown out, stupid, he was so stupid…

And he still hadn’t managed to get a look at that pamphlet. What had Washington even written in it that was so scandalous? Why had Washington even written it at all?

Washington was alive. All at once the absurdity of the situation struck him, and he started to laugh, only his chest hurt so before he knew it the laugh turned into a choking sob.

Washington was alive.

“Hey, kid.” A voice far above him. The third man’s, he thought, the one who had said he would do anything if his son was missing. “Alexander, right? You need help up?”

Alexander took the proffered hand, but he wasn’t dumb enough to tell the truth. “No, my name’s Peter. Peter Lavien.” Not an alias anyone would think he would use…why had Washington aired their dirty laundry in this way, now people would be looking for him…

The man smiled. “Sure it is. Are you hurt?”

He did feel a little banged up. When he coughed he could taste blood. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

“I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t actually get a chance to read it,” he said. “It seems like it would be of interest to you.”

“It’s not,” lied Alexander, grabbing it out of his hand. He couldn’t bear to read it just yet. “I just do not like it when people insult gentlemen of honor, even if said gentlemen are strangers.”

“But he’s not a stranger,” said the man. “You knew who he was. Washington, I mean.”

“Lots of people know George Washington.” Which was why what he had done was absurd, Washington was an intensely private man who cared about his reputation and this…no matter what its contents, this would ruin him.

“Sure, Alex…I mean, Peter.”

Alexander found himself holding the pamphlet close to his chest, like he was trying to stop anyone else from looking at it, which was ridiculous as the damage was already done. “So what, if you think I’m this…Alexander? Are you going to drag me to him for a reward?”

The man smiled at him. “As a matter of fact, that document specifically forbids anyone from doing so.”

Alexander dropped the pamphlet. “…what?” If Washington didn’t want him back, what was the point?

“What’s rewarded is ensuring your safety,” the man explained, “and telling him about it. He says you must not be taken to him by force, and if he finds you have been, the money is forfeit.”

“Huh?” This didn’t make sense. At all.

“If you read it you’ll see. He says he trusts you to make the right decision, and if that’s not with him he’ll understand. He said all that matters is that you’re safe.”

Fuck, why did his chest hurt so much? “He said that?”

The man picked up the pamphlet, handed it to Alexander. “A free bit of advice, kid: go on home to your dad. As he said about sixteen times, he loves you very much.”


	12. you coulda been anywhere in the world tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who helped! We're almost home.

_Being Both an Accounting and A Plea; I, Geo. Washington of Mount Vernon estate in Virginia Colony, do seek the Aid of the Publick in restoring to safety my only Son and Heir, Alexander a boy of Eleven, who may be traveling under the Aliases of Hamilton or Faucette._

Somehow it got worse from there.

Reading the pamphlet was like looking into a mirror and seeing a reflection that was almost, but not quite, accurate. It was almost right, but somehow slantwise, and it made him dizzy if he looked too long. There was information in it he didn't know what to do with— _I loved the Lady as I had yet loved no other, and was selfish enough to want her for my wife, notwithstanding her promises to another, and I would have brought her home had she not Entreated with me in the Strongest terms not to dishonor her with this request._ There were things in it that were flat-out wrong—he was _not_ small of stature for his age and certainly didn't possess an unusually frail and delicate constitution. There were parts of it that were just embarrassing, like when Washington attempted to sing his praises for several long excruciating paragraphs.

…Huh. Did Washington truly believe Alexander possessed " _a Genius of far more Capacity than that of a gentleman of twice his years, and there is no youth that can exceed him in probity and sterling virtue?"_ He had known Washington cared about him, but he hadn't thought Washington believed he was either very smart or very good. He didn't think Washington would lie, not in a document that was supposed to reveal the truth of who they were to the world.

But Alexander still didn't understand why he had even bothered to do that at all. Why hadn't he been circumspect like Alexander himself had? He could have just said he was looking for the boy who had been his traveling companion. Alexander would still have recognized himself. People would still have known, but everyone could have pretended they didn't, and the costs would be less by any definition, whether the costs to Washington's reputation or to his fortune—the sort of people who made it their business to find lost things had to know they could ask for more to return a son than a servant or a foundling ward. Why this…revelation, exposing him to ridicule?

The last part, where Washington stopped addressing strangers and talked to him instead, was the worst of all.

_And for yourself, my Son, should this make its way into your hand, I can do naught but beg your indulgence. First, for the infelicities of expression of the sentiments contained herein, which tho I have ever wished to convey them to you, I know my pen to be inadequate to the task. I have from the first moment of our acquaintance felt every sentiment proper to a father, but I am reticent by nature and have never set much store by mere professions of good will, believing Actions, rather than words, to be the true criterion of attachment. It has then been my aim to show you my sentiment through action. But my efforts on this score were insufficient, and I have failed you both by my actions and by my words. For this I have neither defense nor excuse. Tho I acknowledge the Severity of my Errors in conduct toward you, I know well there is no Remedy I can offer now, and I have no means by which to make Amends._

_Even so, I ask you to come home to me, knowing full well I may not compel. I beg your forgiveness, my dearest Child, and can offer in return only the assurance that no concern of Reputation or the Regard of Society can hold the slightest weight with me any longer, not when compared with your safety and happiness, which is now and ever shall be my paramount concern in this life._

It rambled on like that for a little longer, but it was that passage that shook Alexander to the core. With shaking hands he stuffed the pamphlet into his shirt, not wishing to discard it and incriminate them both further, but unable to look at the thing any longer.

What had Washington ever done that required Alexander's forgiveness? What failure had he, in his fever-addled mind, possibly thought he had been responsible for? Of the two of them, only Alexander had failed. He had rebuffed every overture Washington made, mocked his patience, caused him innumerable difficulties on every possible front. And that wasn't even counting the final, cruel, unforgivable betrayal of abandoning him to die.

And yet.

 _Come home to me,_ he'd written. _Alexander if you read this come home please._

Alexander didn't know what to do with that. What answer could he possibly make?

One thing was clear: Washington was in danger. The man at the tavern had been correct in saying he had made himself vulnerable to those who would wish to take advantage of his heartbreak, and Alexander couldn't even be certain that he was in his right mind. Maybe he hadn't even recovered from his fever, and it could be blamed for the extraordinary document Alexander now held in his hand.

Washington was alone, without the counsel of friends—where was Arnold? Washington said Arnold had survived in the pamphlet, but obviously he wasn't in any condition to advise or aid Washington, for Alexander didn't believe he would ever have allowed him to publish. No one with Washington's welfare in his mind would have.

Which meant he had no one to help him, and guard him from those who would do him harm. Alexander needed to find him immediately, so as not to allow himself to become an instrument of his further ruin.

 _I could still go to New York,_ he thought, almost wistfully. There was nothing holding him here. He could say the contract was over, that he didn't want to go back, that he wished Washington well but could not bear the scrutiny of the world. He could pretend he'd never read the pamphlet at all.

But he'd promised Washington he wouldn't lie. And just because he went back didn't mean he had to stay forever, Washington had been very clear about that. Maybe they would talk and it would be enough, they would both find peace on their own and could move on with their lives.

But he would not—could not—leave without a word. Washington deserved and needed more from him than that.

He would have to be discreet in how he looked, in order to balance out the disaster that was the pamphlet, at least a little. Of course Washington had given an address that Alexander couldn't easily walk to, because why would things be easy for him? And it wasn't like Alexander could just approach any stranger, say he was the boy from the pamphlet, and ask to be taken to his father. It was all too easy to imagine himself being taken hostage, scooped up by someone who would extort Washington's wealth so the man could have but a glimpse of his son. Alexander would rather die than let that happen.

But he also had to act quickly, because the longer he went without making contact with Washington, the farther and faster the pamphlet was likely to spread. If Alexander could not undo the damage, he had to at least try to contain it. Which meant there was no time to waste.

 _Billy,_ he thought. _I need to ask Billy for help._ He still suspected that the man's connections were unsavory, but there was no doubt in Alexander's mind that he was genuinely kind, nor that he really was the sort of person who knew everybody. If he didn't know the neighborhood where Washington was staying, he would know someone who did. He would be able to tell Alexander what he should do, at least to start, and he would know how to keep quiet about it, especially if Alexander used Washington's reward money to buy his discretion.

Having set his course, he could not but embark on it, and he ran through the streets faster than he believed himself capable in his weakened condition. His lungs burned, and his muscles screamed in protest, and he was half-blinded by tears that he had to blink angrily away, but he knew where he was going. There was hardly anyone going in or out of the tavern, for which Alexander was grateful—the evening crowd must not have shown up yet, so Billy might have time for a private audience.

He pushed open the door, dizzy with relief. Billy was alone at the bar, none of the sisters buzzing around like gadflies, another good sign. There were only a few customers, mostly older men sitting alone with their papers or making quiet conversation with one another, not the sort of people likely to start anything with Alexander.

Billy caught sight of him at once, and smiled so widely his black eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well, if it isn't my favorite Virginian!" he said loudly—so much for a quiet, discreet entrance. "Thought I might be seeing you soon."

Huh? Alexander could do nothing but approach the bar. His carefully planned words came out a garbled mess. "Need to talk to you," he gasped. "My dad…have you read…"

"Aye, I have," said Billy. His smile didn't so much as falter. "I'll wager all the Carolinas have by now. Cheer up, kid. You're not the first boy whose father has embarrassed him and you won't be the last."

"But I have to do _something,_ you don't understand…"

Billy jerked his thumb behind him, to a table in one of the far corners, mostly shielded from public view. "Someone's waiting for you there."

Alexander looked.

George Washington was sitting at the table, a pint glass in his hand. He looked—almost conspicuously at ease, untroubled, though Alexander could tell by the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn't been sleeping. He seemed smaller somehow than he ever had, as though the shadows in the room conspired to make him a normal, tired-looking man whose clothes fit poorly, instead of the towering colossus of Alexander's memory. Alexander's mouth fell open.

Washington cleared his throat, beckoning to him. "Hello, Alexander," he said. "I cannot tell you how good it is to see you. Will you do me the honor of taking your supper with me? You m-must be—you must be hungry." He stood up, and pulled out the vacant chair across from him like Alexander was a lady he was squiring into a dinner party.

"What," said Alexander, "the hell."

Somehow—he could never understand how, not in all the years of his life—he was all of a sudden across the room and in Washington's arms, despite not consciously choosing to move and having no memory of doing so. Washington smelled of tobacco smoke and pomade, and his arms were warm and solid around Alexander, and he knew as soon as he pressed his face into the colonel's shoulder that he would not be going to New York, or anywhere else but where Washington was, for a very long time. “I’m so glad you’re all right, sir,” he said, muffled by the fabric of Washington’s coat. “I feared you lost forever.”

Washington made no response, but held him in silence for a few long moments. Alexander didn't dare speak again, for fear the spell would somehow be broken by the act.

"I love you," Washington said, his breath coming quick and ragged. "I promised myself that the first thing I would say to you should I be so fortunate was… _oh, God, baby, you're bleeding."_ His grip slackened enough for Alexander to take a step backward, and he saw a small spot of crimson on Washington's coat.

"Sir, I'm sorry, your clothes…"

"Never mind my clothes, Alexander, what on earth happened to your face?" Washington pressed his handkerchief gently to the cut Alexander hadn't even known was there.

"I must have gotten it when they threw me, don't worry, it's nothing."

"Excuse me? When who did what, exactly?" Washington's thick brows knit together in a frown. "Did you get into a fight, young man?"

Uh-oh. "It was only a minor scuffle, sir, and trust me, they really deserved it."

" _They?"_ Washington visibly struggled to compose himself, taking deep breaths and smoothing his face out into the same placid mask he had worn when Alexander walked in. He didn't let go of Alexander. "It doesn't matter. This…this was not at all how I planned this meeting, forgive me. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Overwhelmed as he was, Alexander could still recognize when he had dodged a bullet. "My hands and knees are a little scraped, sir, but I'm all right, really."

Of course this did not satisfy Washington, and Alexander could admit to himself that he would have been a little disappointed if it had. Washington examined and patched up Alexander's scrapes with the sort of single-minded focus reserved for a much more monumental task, like steering a ship or conducting an amputation, though he was much gentler than one would be for either of those.

"Mr. Holt has been telling me how very brave and clever you have been," Washington said in a transparent bid to distract Alexander from the pain as his scrapes were cleaned.

It worked. "How did you find this place, sir? How did you know I would come?"

"Your newspaper advertisement, of course," Washington said calmly. "I was directed here after inquiring about it, and found I had missed you, and then I thought to find you at the docks but you never went there and I didn’t--but Mr. Holt said not to lose heart and that you would come back eventually, after reading my little message. And he was right. Hold still, love."

"But sir, if you read my message then you knew I was safe…" And it had all been for nothing, Washington had thrown away his reputation for nothing. Why had he published the pamphlet if he knew Alexander would come to Billy? None of this made any sense.

"No, Alexander, I knew you wanted me to think you safe so I wouldn't be alarmed. I didn't know where you were or if you were adequately cared for, I didn't know if you had enough food to eat or a warm place to sleep, I didn't know if I would ever see you again…" Washington's shoulders hitched at that, and Alexander felt like the worst piece of lowlife gutter trash in the known world.

"Sir, I'm sorry, I should have…I could have written it better." If he'd just been clearer, he could have stopped this whole mess from happening, he could have saved Washington from ridicule, he could have…

" _Damn_ me for a fool," Washington said with feeling. "Alexander, forgive me, this is…not how I wanted to…not how I planned…"

This was the second time Washington had referred to a plan, and Alexander was curious. "Did you plan how our encounter would go, sir?"

"I…may have had a few ideas. They certainly didn't include scolding. I'm sorry."

And Alexander knew. "You memorized a speech, didn't you." He knew he had hit the mark when Washington flushed a dull red. "Oh, God, sir, you _did._ " That was…humiliating, and probably also the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him. "Well, don't let me ruin it, tell me the speech! I wouldn't want to wreck something you worked so hard on." Washington's ministrations having ended, he sat in the chair the colonel had pulled out for him, and assumed a pose of rapt attention.

"Alexander."

He couldn't help himself. "Is that really the first line, sir? I know you admire brevity, but that seems a little much, don't you think?"

"You incorrigible brat," said Washington, shaking his head and beaming wider than Alexander had ever seen. "I am pleased that our separation could not dampen your spirits."

"That's not what I meant, sir!" said Alexander, alarmed. "I did not wish to prevent you from saying what you came here to say." He swallowed. "I'm sorry." _Please do proceed,_ he meant to say, but somehow what came out instead was "I'm so sorry, sir, please believe me, I didn't mean for any of this to happen, I'll never do it again, I'm sorry."

"What on earth are you talking about, Alexander?" There was real irritation in Washington's voice, and Alexander didn't know how to make it better.

"I'm sorry!" he said again, and this time it turned into a sob.

"Come here, Alex." The colonel's voice was gentle, unimaginably so, but that was clearly an order…Washington didn't come to him, and Alexander knew he was expected to choose this, to choose him, or it would no longer be offered. The three steps it took to walk to Washington were somehow harder than rowing the lifeboat across the ocean had been, and sinking once more into his arms had every bit of the dizzying relief of reaching dry land.

"My brave boy," said Washington as Alexander threw his arms around his neck and clung to him for dear life. "My brilliant, sweet, strong, courageous son."

"I'm not!" Alexander wailed. _Not any of those things,_ he meant to say, but of course Washington thought he meant _not your son._

"Hush now, yes you are, I've told you as much. Whatever do you have to be sorry for, my love?"

"I left!" he admitted. "You were sick and I couldn't make Mr. Arnold stay, and I wasn't good enough, I didn't make sure you were following us, I let you…and then I made you write that awful...I'm so sorry, it's all my fault…"

"Oh, baby, no. No, no, no. It was not for you to get me off that ship, nor find me after, and I have thanked God every day Benedict was there to protect you as he did."

What on earth? "Benedict?" he sputtered, disbelieving.

"Mr. Arnold, to you," said Washington, as though Alexander needed the clarification. "He sends his regards, by the way, and says he is sorry he couldn't be here to see you off. Pressing family matters called him home. He says I am to tell you, and I quote, to 'take care of that stick-in-the-mud you call a dad, since he hasn't got the sense to do it himself.' He is well, Alexander. We both are, and you did nothing wrong." Washington punctuated this bizarre pronouncement by bending down and pressing a kiss to the crown of Alexander's head. "There was nothing you could have done better and no consequence of this disaster you could have prevented. No more nonsense, now, boy," he said, letting his grip slacken, neither rebuff nor invitation.

Alexander let go and stepped back, examining Washington critically. He didn't look well. He'd had a new suit tailored but it hung off him in the way clothes did when you lost a lot of weight in a short time. He looked sick and exhausted and frail, and Alexander knew that even if he didn't bear responsibility for his conduct in the wreck, he was responsible for that. So it was up to him to put an end to it.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said again, voice steadier now. "You said you had some words to say to me, and I do not wish to interrupt them again. Will you tell me?"

"Of course," said Washington gravely, straightening his cravat from where Alexander had mussed it. "Pardon me, I have quite lost the thread of my thought."

Alexander let him fumble for a moment, then decided to have mercy. "I believe you said the first thing you wanted to say was that you love me, sir." Strange, how not strange those words sounded to his ears, after so long not believing them.

"Ah, yes, of course. I do love you, very much. More than I ever believed possible."

He did not dare ask _why_ again, or they would be there all night, and Alexander wanted nothing more, all of a sudden, than to get this over with so they could go home. "Very well, so we've covered that point. What was the next thing you wished to say, sir?"

He almost expected Washington to chide him for impertinence again, but instead he looked grateful. "I do not know--I could not tell by your missive whether you wished me to find you, or were ending our contract as is your right. I wished to assure you that if you do not want to speak with me, or continue our association, I know I cannot force you. If you wish to walk out the door, I will not stop you. I only ask that you listen to me first."

And Alexander realized something. After everything, Washington still thought he was on trial. He still thought Alexander might find him wanting and leave. "Do I have to?" he blurted out like a child, and hastened to clarify, knowing Washington was likely to misunderstand him. "I mean, do I have to go? To walk away?" _I don't want to be alone anymore._

"God, no," said Washington. "You can stay with me as long as you want, Alexander."

"Oh. Good. Please continue."

"Third, I wished to explain to you my reasoning for publishing what I did, in a manner that will no doubt bring you notoriety, for which I cannot but apologize even as I do not regret…"

Alexander did indeed want to hear what on earth Washington had been thinking, but this had gone on long enough. Too long, for both of them. "Sir, may I interrupt?"

 _"Please,"_ Washington said, and Alexander laughed.

"I know we have many weighty matters to discuss, sir, chief among them errors in judgment on both our parts, and what atonement we shall make for them—"

"You have no atonement to make, Alexander—"

"Please let me finish, sir. Do we have to have all these discussions immediately? Could they not instead occupy us on the way to Virginia? My understanding is that it is several weeks' journey from here, so we will have time."

" _Oh,"_ Washington said. "Alexander, are you sure?"

 _No._ He felt he had never been less certain of himself than he had been since Washington came for him. Less certain of who he was and his place in the world. Before, everything had been awful, but at least he knew the shape of his life, who he was and might one day become. Now he knew nothing.

But he wouldn't be alone in his uncertainty. "I'm really tired," he said honestly. "I want to go home. With you," he added, just in case Washington thought he meant something ridiculous, like that he wanted to go back to Christiansted. "Will you please take me home, sir?"

"It would be my honor," said Washington. They shook on it. Then Alexander saw something he had never thought or wished to see: Colonel Washington bursting into tears.

"Oh, no, sir, please," said Alexander, going to his side at once. He had no handkerchief to offer him, and Washington's had been ruined with Alexander's blood. "Sir, I'm right here, it's all right, I'm not going anywhere, please don't cry!"

"I beg your pardon," Washington choked out. "I'm sorry, Alex, are you sure?"

A cough, from one of the tables near them, and the dour-faced gentleman who had been sitting there alone passed Washington his own handkerchief. "I couldn't help overhearing," he said, "and as I have boys of my own, I feel obliged to tell you…dude, quit while you're ahead."

Mortified, Alexander glared at the interloper. He'd forgotten they were in public, and that anyone else was there but the two of them. He'd exposed Washington to even more public ridicule, made a mockery of his privacy.

Washington didn't seem to care. "You are quite right," he said, composing himself and wiping away the tears. "Alex, dear, sit down and I'll get your supper. Please tell me it isn't actually your breakfast."

"Clause ten of our agreement forbids me from bearing false witness, sir," he said, already resigning himself to a very long evening of being fussed over while Washington got indignant about the appalling conditions to which Alexander had been subjected. It would doubtless be vexing, but Alexander thought he could endure it.

If anything Washington was almost too calm about the whole thing. "I'll have Mr. Holt bring you something gentle on your stomach, then."

Alexander leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The contract, he would have to renegotiate the contract so that it was fair and equal for both of them…but not today. He didn't have to do everything or fix everything today. He could rest for a little while.

When Washington returned it was with Billy and their food. "Going home, are you, kid? I'm happy for you."

"Me too," Alexander said honestly. Washington beamed.

Billy clapped Alexander on the shoulder. "You take care of yourself, you hear? And this one too."

"Why does everyone seem to think I need you to take care of me?" Washington grumbled.

Alexander was feeling daring. "I don't know, sir, they've probably met you." God alone knew what other disasters Washington could get himself into, if Alexander wasn’t around to display sense. They’d seen quite enough of that already.

Washington ruffled his hair. "Eat now, before you fall asleep in your soup. And for you, Mr. Holt," he said, taking his seat, "there's the matter of the recompense you are owed for taking care of my son."

"Are you kidding?" Billy said. "I'll trade for the rest of my life on being there the day George Washington brought his son home. So will everyone here now. A story is worth more than any coin."

"Surely we will have faded back into obscurity in South Carolina by the time you reach your old age, Mr. Holt," said Washington, but he didn't quite sound like he believed it. He and Alexander exchanged an uneasy glance. He wanted the whole world to know his name, and he thought it was the same for Washington, but…not like this.

Billy smiled. "Doubt it," he said, and his words had the weight of truth to them. Alexander could almost feel them settle on his shoulders like the weight of a too-heavy cloak, of a thousand eyes watching him, and a chill went down his spine. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it seemed like the room was getting more and more full by the minute, and all the new customers were watching the spectacle they had become.

He could tell Washington felt it too, because of the way his face closed off like a windowpane abruptly slamming shut. "Be that as it may," he said, "I still owe you a very great debt, sir."

"No, you don't," said Billy.

"Yes, we do, sir!" Alexander piped up. "We owe him…" He cast back in his memory for the amount Billy would need to get himself out of debt, then added a little more for incidentals and in case there were charges he didn’t know about. It was a great deal of money, and Alexander didn't expect Washington to acquiesce.

Washington didn't blink. "Done," he said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll draw up the papers to be sent to my steward… _eat,_ Alex." And he moved to an empty spot a few tables away—to give the two of them privacy, Alexander realized. Those papers didn’t need to be drawn up this instant, but Alexander liked Washington a little better for giving Billy his dignity thus.

" _Daaaaamn,"_ Billy said. "I didn't realize you were a lordling. One of the most prominent citizens of Virginia, huh."

Alexander hadn't realized either, and the knowledge made him want to squirm in his chair. Still, he was ravenous, and recent experience had taught him to take food and drink when and where he could get it, so he ate and drank, making a face at the watered-down ale. "To be honest, I didn't think he would say yes," he admitted.

"You sure you wouldn't rather ask for your own team of horses, kid?"

"I'm sure he'll buy me a horse," he said. It was supposed to be a joke but he realized halfway through saying it that it wasn't one at all—Washington definitely would. He would consider it one of the necessities of life he had to provide for in the contract, and Alexander was so embarrassed he could hardly breathe.

"Kid, getting an idiot out of a mess he made himself shouldn't be your welcome-home present."

"You're not an idiot, and why not? It's what I want. Everyone I know makes lots of messes, it's nice to be able to fix one for once. I believe someone I know was telling me about saying thank you and having that be the end of the matter? Except, oh, if there's anything Francis from the paper needs can you see he gets it?"

"As a matter of fact he--I mean, I…yeah. Yeah, I can. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." It felt really, really good to be on the other side of that exchange for once.

Washington returned to them in short order, handing Billy a note. "You should know, sir, that this sum is paltry, compared to…"

"Not to me," Billy interrupted. "You've made my father and sisters very, very happy, sir."

"As you have done for me," Washington said. “You cannot know how much.”

"I think your boy did that himself," Billy said. "Nonetheless, you have my family's thanks."

"Alexander is remarkable, it's true. I am the most fortunate of men to have him for a son."

Alexander felt warm all over, and he didn't think it was just the ale. The praise itself did not affect him as much as the way Washington said it--like an incontrovertible fact, not to be questioned. It made Alexander fearless, as though he could take on the whole world.

"Which reminds me," Washington said, drawing a little purse of coin from his coat, "will this cover a round for all your patrons? All your patrons but my son, that is, who has had enough."

Billy took the purse, testing its weight. "Yeah, a few times over."

"Then by all means give them a few rounds, with my compliments."

Billy bowed to them and did so.

"What was that?" said Alexander, giggling.

"Well, I didn't get to do that when you were born, did I? There are advantages to having no secrets. Speaking of, do I need to know what that was about, between you and Mr. Holt? I am asking, Alexander," he said, holding up a hand as Alexander drew breath to protest.

"I—no, sir, you don't." _He made a mistake, that's all,_ Alexander wanted to say, but Billy's errors were not for Washington to know or judge.

Washington nodded gravely. "Very well, then. I trust you."

Alexander's eyes stung, and he blinked, hard. "Thank you, sir."

Just then one of the tables near them exploded in shouts and cheers, and Washington stood up. "And that's our cue to leave."

"What's the point of buying drinks for people to toast you if you don't stay for the toast?"

"To have done so. C'mon, we need to get you to a bed." Without fanfare, he removed his coat and settled it across Alexander’s shoulders.

Alexander burst out laughing. “Oh, God, sir, _no,_ I’ll look ridiculous…” He really would--the sleeves alone drowned him.

“Don’t you argue with me, young man. On with it and no fuss.” The instant Alexander obeyed, Washington’s facade of stern composure cracked, and he almost doubled over laughing. “Oh, God.”

Alexander didn’t think Washington needed to go outside without a coat so soon after recovering from an illness. That was what motivated him, not concern for his vanity. “Does this mean I don’t have to wear it, sir?”

“Nice try,” Washington said. He took Alexander by the hand and herded him toward the exit, laughing the whole time, like a schoolboy, like someone who had gotten away with something and couldn't believe his luck.

Alexander looked back and up at him. He'd never thought he would see that expression of fierce joy on Colonel Washington's face, so open and unafraid. Still less did he believe he could be the one to cause it. Washington, seemingly noting Alexander’s surprise, squeezed his hand, as if to reassure Alexander that it was truly he.

The cheers of the men followed them out, cresting like a wave.

 


	13. epilogue: now the work at home begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benedict Arnold's eldest son and namesake was born in February 1768, which would make his birth a little too early for this, but I feel justified in pushing the timeline ahead for thematic resonance.
> 
> There is another mention of child sex work in this chapter, as well as other colonial unpleasantness.

_My Dear Sir,_ _  
__  
__Your favor reached me just as we were about to depart at last for Virga., our journey thence having been delayed by illness and weather. I regret immeasurably not having taken the time to write you a fuller account of Master Washington's return to me since then—the courier was in as much of a hurry to depart as myself. If my note found its way to your hand, you will know my Son is safe with me at last. If certain other documents have traveled as far as you have, you will know what a near thing that was. It pains me more than you can know to admit how deeply I despaired of ever seeing my boy again, even with our knowledge he had reached shore. That he returned to me unharmed and of his own free will seems nothing short of miraculous._ _  
__  
__But let us not dwell on that now. I would instead turn our attention to the happy Increase of both our families. I was most pleased to hear the news of your safe arrival at home, and of the birth of your Son. May young Benedict prove to have all the valor of his father, with far less occasion to need it. Should you take half as much joy in the state of fatherhood as I have done you will be among the most fortunate of all men. Having been in this state longer than yourself I thought perhaps I might offer you advice, but upon reflection I do not think you need it, for my greater Experience has shown me, that perhaps the most valuable Quality in a Father of boys is the Skill of Improvisation, and our recent travails proved your natural talent in this Arena is much greater than my own._ _  
__  
__My Son wishes me to tell you—_  
  
"Alexander!" George called out, to where the boy was lying on his belly on the grass near the river, reading a book.  
  
The boy didn't look up from his reading. "Mmm?"  
  
"What message would you like me to convey to Mr. Arnold?"  
  
"Tell him I'm glad it's a boy, and that I'm taking care of you like he said," Alexander called back.  
  
George ducked his head so the boy couldn't catch a glimpse of his smile. "Very well. Come back to the carriage now, Alexander, I don't want you to get cold."  
  
Alexander's groan was audible even from a distance. "Oh, but it's so lovely out, sir, just a few more minutes!"  
  
Alexander had taken to the close confinement of a carriage about as well as he'd taken to the close confinement of sea travel, which was to say not well at all. George would have to make sure their coachman was handsomely compensated for the frequent breaks the boy's nervous stomach had forced. They were making much slower time than they ought, and with every moment that brought them closer to Virginia George grew more restless and agitated. He wanted so much to be home. He had been gone for too long, months longer than he'd wished or planned.  
  
But it was all right. All was well. His son was with him.  
  
"Very well, Alexander, but a few more minutes only, understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir, I'll come to you." George knew very well that he would finish his letter and have to collect the boy himself, and that Alexander's clothing would doubtless be a frightful mess. He didn’t mind.  
  
_My Son wishes me to tell you of his joy at the fact Mrs. Arnold has borne you a Boy. He says he is following the instructions you gave him. He is well, tho much weakened by his ordeal, and it will take time for him to be certain of his place. He is_  
  
Describing Alexander always made George keenly aware of the shortcomings of his pen. How to make someone understand the value of his child? George knew he was not equal to that monumental task.  
  
"Alexander!"  
  
" _Yes_ , sir, I'm coming!"  
  
That had been a mistake, but there was nothing for it now. "No, I meant…what's another word for remarkable?"  
  
"Huh?" Alexander propped himself up on his elbow, but did not comment on the non sequitur. "Um, illustrious? Grand? Notable?"  
  
"Hmm, not quite right. I'll think of it."  
  
But there was a limit to how much a man could change his nature, for he did not think of it, and Alexander did need to be fetched. George watched, bemused, as Alexander kept turning pages, completely oblivious to the passage of time.  
  
He might as well finish Benedict's letter, inadequate though it would doubtless be. _He is a remarkable young man, as you already know, and I believe his steel has been tempered from our recent trials. What he needs most now is time and rest and care, and it shall be my greatest Enterprise in the coming days to give him all three._ _  
__  
__We have spoken, you and I, about the extent to which a man can be governed by Duty and Obligation. It would be churlish of me to attempt Refutation of your gracious Refusal of Payment for all you have done for my Family; nonetheless I must tell you that should there ever be any assistance I can render you or yours, I would consider it not Duty but Privilege to provide it._ _  
__  
__I offer my best wishes for the coming period of tranquility, for which I do believe your nature far better suited than the Doubts you have hitherto expressed to me would indicate. Should you wish to write us a few Lines, or even to visit us in Virginia, we would receive them with great pleasure. Mount Vernon will ever be open to you._ _  
__  
__I remain My Dr. Sir yr most Obedt and Humble_ _  
__Geo. Washington_ _  
_  
Alexander still made no move toward George or the carriage, and that was all the indulgence George could reasonably give him. He sealed the letter and put away his writing materials, then got up and walked to the boy.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, I was just about to come, I just need to finish my page," he said as soon as George approached him.  
  
"Time to go, my boy," he said, extending his hand. He had no wish to scold, for then Alexander would believe himself to be the recipient of George's displeasure, which was hardly necessary. Alexander permitted himself to be helped up, though George noticed his worried glance back up at him. Not quite confident, then. George brushed the dirt off the boy's clothes, hoping to convey his lack of anger with his gentle hands. Alexander accepted the touch, though the pensive little frown didn't go away.  
  
"Sir, I've been thinking," he said. "Is the pronouncement you made on the ship still considered to be in force?"  
  
George had no idea what the boy was talking about. "What do you mean, Alexander?"  
  
"Am I still to stay in your sight? You haven't required me to remain in your reach, for which I am grateful, but I…I wanted to know."  
  
Truth be told, George barely remembered that discussion, as feverish and exhausted as he had been. As ever, when Alexander asked these questions, George had the sense he was asking far more than what his words would suggest. The trick was to figure out what. George had the sense his reprieve from the fraught negotiation of their relationship was at an end.  
  
It had been good while it lasted. "Why do you ask, son?" he said, to buy himself time.  
  
"Just wondering is all," said the boy, refusing to meet his eyes. "We've been sticking close together and I wondered if we…if we had to."  
  
If George recalled correctly, he had set the term of Alexander's confinement to expire when they reached land, which by the grace of God they had. Alexander was doubtless aware of that, as adept as he was at exploiting loopholes. He had no need to ask for his freedom, having won it already. So that probably wasn't what he was really asking for.  
  
"Is there somewhere you wish to go on your own, Alexander?" George's gut went hollow at the thought, but he knew it was irrational. He couldn't keep the boy in his sight forever; that would do as much damage as leaving him alone had.  
  
" _No_ …ah, I mean, no, sir. But I might. Soon. You know."  
  
"I do," said George, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction at having guessed right. "You have been very patient, Alexander."  
  
The boy didn't perk up the way he usually did when praised, and he still wouldn't look at George. Definitely something other than his freedom, then.  
  
For lack of anything better to do, George began walking to the carriage. He almost offered his arm for Alexander to use for balance, then remembered this wasn't the ship and the boy would rightly chafe at being coddled. "Do you mind if I think about it?" he asked. "We can discuss it further when we stop for the evening. I want to…I want to make sure I am making the right decision for you. To keep you safe."  
  
"That would…that would be good, sir."  
  
As he settled the boy in the carriage, he wondered if he'd made a mistake in not forcing Alexander to resolve the matter immediately. The boy's anxieties increased when he thought George was about to pass judgment on him for any reason. George took out his travel desk, ostensibly so he could work on his letter to Arnold but really so he could observe Alexander to see if he displayed any signs of fear, which would need to be put to rest.  
  
As soon as they began to move, Alexander fell asleep on George's shoulder. That was…unexpected. And novel, if a little worrisome….George hadn't noticed his spirits flagging before this. But not unwelcome. George set aside his writing implements so the boy could have more room to stretch out if he chose to, which he immediately did. Interesting.  
  
George settled in, already resigned to doing no work. His reply to Martha's letter would have to wait, although that concerned him—her last, though filled with expressions of joy that they were alive, had been unusually evasive about the children, which worried him. But she was capable of looking after them, of that he had no doubt.  
  
Although he yearned to be back in Martha's arms, as the hours went on he grew melancholy, and at first he could not figure out why. He had more than he'd ever dared to hope for and he knew it. There was no need for…grief. Was this grief? So often he had taken times of great happiness in his life completely for granted, and only recognized them after they were gone.  
  
He would hardly consider the last few months a time of great happiness. In many ways it was one of the most anguished times of his life, and no power on earth or in heaven would ever get him to willingly relive it. And yet he felt a sense of loss all the same. An impulse to ask, all of a sudden, if they could slow down, keep going for just a little longer. A few days, maybe.  
  
_It's because he'll never again belong only to me, nor I to him._ Even as he had the thought, he knew it was unworthy, but he couldn't help it. When they got home, Alexander would be part of the family, as he should be. He'd find his place in Martha's heart and she in his, and would negotiate his place among the other children as he had with George, although less formally. After that there would be school, and then maybe a woman, and by the grace of God his own children, George's grandchildren, who would rightly have first claim upon him. Alexander would belong to the world, and finally to history—George was no fool, he knew his son was not meant for a life of quiet retirement on the farm.  
  
George's love for his son would endure. Perhaps even into those history books— _whatever they say of me a hundred years hence, let them say I did my best for him._  But it would never be just the two of them again. They would never be the fixed point of each other's world. He could not even say he wished that were so—Alexander should grow beyond him, should outshine him as every son should eclipse his father. He couldn't wait to watch it happen.  
  
_I just want a little longer, is all. Is that too much to ask?_ _  
_  
He could almost hear Rachel tell him he was being an idiot. _Forever unsatisfied_ , she would say with a disdainful toss of her head. _He was never just yours. You think I wanted to give him up to you, huh? You think I didn't want to wait just a little longer? But if I had it would have been too late._ _  
_  
George could hardly bear to think about that, about what might have happened if Rachel had waited too long. The thought of Alexander growing up alone, while George continued blissfully ignorant at Mount Vernon, never even knowing of his son's existence…well. He did not have to think on it, so he would not.  
  
He could have lost Alexander so many ways. Could have, and had not. Alexander could have been an orphan alone, or dead, or victim of any one of a hundred fates worse than death, all of which George had imagined in vivid detail during the long weeks of their separation. And yet he was here, fast asleep on George's chest.  
  
_Whatever else happens, you have this moment_ , he told himself. _Breathe. Enjoy it._ _  
__  
_ And so he did.  
  
Alexander barely stirred, even with their frequent breaks to water the horses. Whenever George had to get up for any reason, he would grumble, but he never fully woke up, and would always nestle back into place the instant George took up his own. Perhaps they should slow down a little, thought George. His son was obviously overtired.  
  
That evening they crossed into Virginia Colony, and George wanted to get out of the carriage and kiss the ground. He realized that would be overdoing it, though, even with the change that had come over him these last few weeks, during which he smiled and laughed more often than he ever had. Besides, he had no wish to wake the source of that change, who was still using George's chest as a pillow. So he bent his head and kissed Alexander's forehead instead.  
  
The boy stirred. "Hey," he said around a yawn.  
  
George smiled, a little ruefully. "Hey. Didn't mean to wake you, I'm sorry."  
  
Alexander shifted his weight off George's lap and sat up, rubbing his eyes. George tried not to feel the absence. "'S all right. Wasn't sleeping anyway. Did you need anything, sir?"  
  
Alexander had been quite the solicitous little nursemaid, ever since his first night back with George when the doctor had come to check on them both and promptly scolded George for risking relapse by going off bed rest too early. The language the man had used terrified the poor boy and seemed to make him believe George might collapse and die at any moment. George appreciated the care, even as he wished Alexander didn't have reason to be so scared.  
  
"Nah, I'm good. We're in our own country now, you know. Home."  
  
Alexander blinked. "We're in Virginia? But didn't we still have another…" He looked out the window. "Wait, did I sleep the whole entire day?" He sounded put out that he'd missed out on a day of carriage travel, which amused George.  
  
Alexander furiously tried to stuff his hair back into its queue, and straighten his clothing, seeming embarrassed to be caught out doing something so uncharacteristic as sleeping. "But I'm not even tired, sir!" he complained, as though this were an injustice for which George was personally responsible.  
  
George had the feeling it was going to be a long night. "Come here," he said, and helped Alexander make himself a little more presentable, which Alexander was gracious enough to allow with a bare minimum of fuss.  
  
They stopped for the night at an inn George had stayed at before, and George could not tell whether he was imagining the whispers that attended them. He expected a certain amount of notoriety from the pamphlet, considering how hard he had worked to ensure it spread far and wide. But it was different to face that so close to home.  
  
He would not, could not, make Alexander think he was ashamed of him, or that he regretted what he had done in any way. So he held his head high, hoping his son would follow his example. Alexander didn't seem to notice anything was amiss, and did not balk at being introduced to the innkeeper as George's son, which was a victory in itself.  
  
He got them settled in their room, cursing for the fiftieth time his decision not to bring servants on this trip, in deference to the sensitive and private nature of his business. At least, he thought ruefully, they were traveling much lighter now. He wondered if he should bring up Alexander's odd question from earlier, but the boy was ahead of him as usual.  
  
"It has not escaped my notice, sir," he said, sitting down on the bed with the particular abandon only youths could, as though he were staking a claim to the mattress, "that there were certain discussions we were going to have on the way to Virginia, and now we are in Virginia with nothing resolved."  
  
_Nothing needs to be resolved,_ he thought. _I love you. You're home. That's all that matters._  
  
But this wasn't about what mattered to him. "Yes," he said.  
  
He wanted to ask a thousand things. But before he had ever had children, he'd learned the trick of letting his silence fill the room. It served him well.  
  
"Sir," said Alexander. His voice shook a little, but his body did not, and he had no trouble looking George in the eye. "I must entreat you to….I mean, I-I don't know how to say it."  
  
"Whatever you need is yours," said George. Even if that meant setting the boy free. He had prayed a thousand times on his knees, _just let him be safe. Let him be safe and I will give up anything._ He could hardly back out of the bargain now.  
  
Alexander, too, was learning about silence. But George was just the slightest bit more patient.  
  
"I figured out what you did," said the boy after a long moment. "With the contract. The last clause." He did not elaborate further, but he did not need to.  
  
"Ah," said George. "I thought you might. You're a smart boy." This was not at all where he had expected this conversation to go, but he had learned it was best to follow the path of the boy's thinking, no matter how off course it seemed to George at first. If he did that, eventually they would get where they needed to go.  
  
Alexander leaned forward, intent. "You have to change it, sir."  
  
"I don't believe I do," said George. Then, noticing the stubborn set of the boy's shoulders, "Why do you say so?"  
  
"Because it isn't fair, sir! It isn't fair that I can leave and you can't. It puts you at such a disadvantage, it traps you, it…"  
  
"It's not a trap if I wish to stay, is it," said George. "I don't want an easy exit, Alexander. I don't want an exit at all."  
  
"You might one day," said the boy. "You never know what could happen. You need to protect yourself, sir."  
  
_I wouldn't want an easy way to forsake my wedding vows, so why would I wish to have one for my children?_ But trying to use that example with Alexander would be nothing short of fatuous. "What constitutes, in your judgment, the best sort of agreement between gentlemen, Alexander?"  
  
"One that's fair, where all parties hold to their honor and keep their word," said the boy at once.  
  
George nodded. "Very good. And what is fairness, in your view?"  
  
"When…everybody gets the same thing?" But he was skeptical; George could see that, could see he had him.  
  
"Do you think so?"  
  
Alexander smiled. "I can see that you do not, sir, so I shall wait for you to correct me."  
  
George felt his mouth quirk upward at the corners. "If everyone got the same things out of an agreement, there would hardly be a need for negotiation, now would there, my impudent boy?"  
  
"I see the point you are driving at, sir," said Alexander. "You're about to say you need different things than me to be secure, is that right? That I need a way to leave but you don't."  
  
"That's about the size of it, yes. Am I wrong?"  
  
Alexander tensed like a coiled spring, and George thought he might get up to pace, but instead his outburst was verbal. "It's not fair, because I did leave, and look what almost happened! Sir, I almost…I almost let you die, surely you have to recognize that, surely there must be some sort of consequence, I don't understand…"  
  
Oh. This was guilt. Like so much else with his son, it all came back to guilt, over abrogating some responsibility a child of his age should never have felt he had to carry.  
  
He had tried absolving the boy, but that clearly wasn't enough. He would have to do better, or this could hang over Alexander's head like a dark cloud for years, and the boy didn't deserve such a blot on his youth.  
  
He would have to try logic again, no matter how poorly the boy's heart would respond to that. "Alexander, did you wish to abandon me on that ship? Was your goal to leave with Mr. Arnold and forsake me?"  
  
"No," whispered Alexander. "Please believe me, sir, I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I tried to stop the boat but Mr. Arnold and the ladies were too quick."  
  
Of all the blessings for which he had reason to thank God, that one was paramount in his mind, but Alexander was in no state to hear that now. "I do believe you, Alexander," George said. _So why don't you?_ _  
_  
Then it came to him, the reason Alexander had brought up the contract and his punishment from earlier, the one George barely remembered. "Alexander, are you...have you been waiting to be punished? Is that why..."  
  
He didn't have to finish his sentence, for the boy gave a miserable nod and his head dropped. "I know you wish to...you wish to indulge me, sir, and I am grateful, but what I did must not be allowed to stand. I'll accept whatever you decide, I know it will be fair, sir."  
  
George could see a certain sort of sense in that, a child's sense. How many times had he wished, when he made mistakes he thought could never be erased, that there could be some sort of ritual in which he made atonement? Maybe that was what Alexander needed to come out from under this shadow. He could do that for his son, he thought. He could make Alexander feel as though he had paid a just cost for what he saw as his misdeed.  
  
"Whatever I decide," George said flatly.  
  
Alexander looked up, and George saw no fear in his gaze, beyond the normal trepidation any boy would feel at being the recipient of his father's sometimes harsh judgment. "Yes, sir."  
  
A thought came to George then, and God knew he was tempted to put it into words. It would solve several problems, and he thought perhaps the boy was working up to asking for it, with all his hand-wringing over the contract. _Then to make this fair you must lose your out._ It would be everything he wanted, and the boy would accept it, would deem it just. George knew he would. He might even be relieved, at least at first, believing it made the two of them even.  
  
But George could not do it, for it would not be justice but a mockery of the same. The fact was that they were father and son, not two gentlemen attempting to reach an accord, and making them even was not and had never been George’s goal; Alexander’s safety and happiness was. He would not even bring it up, for then the boy might believe he had to offer it, and George didn't want or need to be offered anything.  
  
"Alex," said George. "Look at me. I can't...I must not punish you. It wouldn't be right."  
  
Alexander blanched. "But I--"  
  
"Listen, please. I can't punish you, Alexander, because you did not do anything wrong. You survived and came home to me, and anything you had to do, any choice you had to make..." He trailed off, swallowing the large lump in his throat, and remembered the days he and Arnold had looked for Alexander on the streets, in workhouses and once, most heartbreaking of all, in a brothel. He had believed nothing could be worse than finding Alexander there, until they didn’t. He had known then that whatever had happened to Alexander didn't matter, so long as he came home, and that had not changed. Would never change.  
  
But what was the right thing to say? George couldn't allow himself to fail now. "I am so very proud of you," he said. "Of everything you did. Do you know how unlikely it is that any other boy your age could have survived, let alone helped other people? You did better than I ever could have hoped for."  
  
Alexander looked skeptical, and George knew he had to say more. "Had I been there, Alexander, I would have ordered you to leave with Mr. Arnold, whether you liked it or not."  
  
"I'd have disobeyed your orders, sir," said Alexander, apparently without thinking.  
  
"Then let us both count ourselves fortunate we were separated, and declare the matter closed," said George, letting a note of sternness creep into his voice.  
  
Alexander didn't fail to notice it. "Sir…"  
  
"You said you would accept my judgment, Alexander," George reminded him.  "No matter what I decided."  
  
"That was…I…but…you…" Alexander evidently decided any possible retort was most unwise, or he was reduced to inarticulate spluttering.  
  
"And as to your freedom," said George, "you may go out of my sight if you choose, for I know I can trust you to handle yourself. You have done so in far more trying circumstances, after all."  
  
That stopped the sputtering. "Really, sir?"  
  
"Of course," said George, trying not to smile. "You're an extraordinary young man, Alexander. But I would consider it a personal favor if you didn't go away too often, or too far. Do me a kindness, would you, and stay close?"  
  
Alexander tried to roll his eyes, but the effect was ruined by how widely he was beaming.  
  
"Hey," George said. "That's the word I ought to have used. Extraordinary. Ah well, Benedict will doubtless be able to infer it, don't you think?"  
  
The eye-roll became a little more markedly genuine, after that.  
  
*

  
He had not thought to feel so nervous, watching for Alexander's reaction as they came within view of the house. He was not so foolish as to think Alexander would love it right away, the way he did, but seeing his home made him feel oddly exposed and subject to judgment, in a way he had not anticipated.  
  
But Alexander's response was beyond what he could have hoped for, even in his secret heart of hearts whose foolish fantasies he had no wish to admit, even to himself. "Sir," said the boy, mouth dropping open, "is all of this yours?"  
  
George permitted himself the tiniest of half-smiles. He would have to show Alexander the greater part of the estate in the coming days. "Ours, love," he corrected.  
  
"Oh," said the boy, but he didn't comment further, looking out the carriage window as if searching for something. George didn't dare ask what. "Sir, can I ask you one more thing?"  
  
"You can ask me anything, always," George said, but he knew what Alexander was getting at. These were the last few moments of their long journey, and as soon as they stepped out of the carriage and into the house they would become something new, something neither of them could understand yet. It was right that the long negotiation they had been conducting since they got on the ship conclude here, whatever that meant.  
  
"Would you really have let me go?" asked Alexander. "Back in South Carolina, when you found me. You said you would let me walk out if I asked. Did you mean it?"  
  
He had meant it, without question. But better men than he had discovered there was a world of difference between intending to do something and actually being capable of doing it, and he truly did not know if he could have walked away. He knew for a fact he could not have done so and remained a whole man afterwards.  
  
But what answer could he give Alexander, so the boy felt neither trapped nor alone? He could tell that _yes, of course_ wasn't going to be the right answer, no matter how stridently Alexander insisted it was. What child would want to hear that his father would willingly abandon him forever, even at his request?  
  
_Tell him the truth,_ he chided himself. _It's the only answer you have._ _  
_ _  
_ He took a deep breath. "I would not have forced you to live with me, if you did not wish to," he admitted, feeling the shame of his failure at having to consider the possibility at all. "But I would not have let you walk alone into the streets with nowhere to go, either. I would have made sure you were safe, and had people to take care of you, even if I was not the one permitted that privilege. And I would have written as often as you'd allow, and I—I would never stop hoping that perhaps, when you were ready, you would send for me and we could go home." All of a sudden, he could barely breathe with it, the wanting, the hope that was satisfied, at least for now.  
  
"You would have come back, then," said Alexander. George could tell it wasn't a question. "If I asked you to come get me."  
  
"Well, yeah," said George. "We're for keeps, you and me."  
  
For a few minutes, George thought Alexander wasn't going to respond to that. Then, with an imperious note in his voice, he said, "If you wish, sir, I would be amenable to extending the term of our agreement. We can revisit it in a year. I mean. If you want."  
  
George took a moment to thank Lawrence for every bit of composure his older brother had ever made him master. "I would like that very much, Alexander."  
  
They did not shake hands that time. They did not need to.  
  
As they approached the house, he could see Alexander tense, steeling himself as though for a blow, or a battle. George sympathized, feeling something similar himself. "Are you ready, Alexander?" he asked. He was not sure he was.  
  
But Alexander didn't get the chance to answer, for before they even came to a stop a small, black-haired bullet shot out of the house and ran for them. "Papa, Papa!" the bullet shrieked.  
  
Nothing for it. George clambered out, heedless of his own safety, and moments later had his little girl in his arms.  
  
His little girl who looked more like a woman than she had any right to. "Is this my Patsy? No, you can't be Patsy, you are far too tall. My Patsy's just a little thing."  
  
Patsy's eye-roll put anything Alexander had ever managed to shame. " _Paaaaapaaaaa_ ," she said through giggles. "That's not funny."  
  
"She is, you know. Just tiny. I used to throw her up in the air and catch her, like this." George demonstrated.  
  
Oof. She had gotten a little heavier, too, which was all to the good. George could manage. He twirled her like a dance partner, then set her gently on the ground. "I've missed you, darling girl."  
  
He thought she might say she missed him too, but she immediately turned toward the carriage. "Did you bring Alexander for me? Where is he, I want to meet him, I've been waiting forever!"  
  
George laughed. "Not only for you, but yes, I'll get him."  
  
He expected Alexander to chatter as much as Patsy was doing, but he was silent as George helped him out, his eyes wide and fixed on Patsy, who accosted him immediately.  
  
"Hi," she said. "I'm Martha Custis and you're Alexander Washington and I'm really glad you're here, I feel like I've heard so much about you just from Papa's letters, and it will be so nice to have someone else at home, Jacky's fine but…he's Jacky, you know? Anyway I-I really hope you like it here, I do but I've lived here since I was small and Mama married Papa, I don't really know anywhere else but…this is a good place. A good home."  
  
Alexander blinked. He looked oddly pale for some reason. "I will admit," he stammered, "that I did not expect the place to be possessed of such charming scenery. Miss Custis." Then, to George's astonishment, he bowed low and kissed her hand.  
  
George shook his head. That boy would be dangerous when he grew up enough to notice women.  
  
Patsy was by no means immune to Alexander's nascent charm. She laughed and blushed, taking his hand. "C'mon, I'll show you the grounds," she said, and they were off without so much as a word to George.  
  
George wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he did have the sense it had just gotten ahead of him in ways he didn’t quite understand. Someone clapped him on the shoulder. George, startled, turned around to find his eldest grinning at him. "You're late, Pa."  
  
Jacky was taller too, and broader, and George's cheeks hurt from smiling at seeing him. "And you, I think, are supposed to be in school, no?"  
  
Jacky shrugged. "Someone had to look after the girls with you gone."  
  
That didn’t excuse Jacky from school, but George was the last person who could afford to give a lecture about shirking family responsibilities just now. "I-I…thank you, Jack." He wondered what Martha would have to say about her son referring to her as a girl. "Thank you for being here with them."  
  
"I thought you'd be mad," said Jacky, sounding put out that this wasn't the case.  
  
"I'm proud of you," said George, putting his arm around the boy. "I love you, you know that, right? I don't say it enough but—"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," said Jacky. "You had better come on in, sir. She's been waiting for you."

George turned to the house.  
  
Martha was silhouetted in the doorway, looking not so much like a devoted wife awaiting the return of her husband as a warrior queen about to pass judgment on one of her knights. She held herself proud and fierce, with a distance to her bearing he had not seen since they were first courting.  
  
George forgot how to breathe. He had known, of course, that what he had done, facilitating his own ruin, disappearing for half a year, making her believe he may be dead, must have hurt her. But he saw the consequences of it reflected in her face, and it became real for him.  
  
He could not even beg for forgiveness, that was the worst thing. He was not sorry, and she had to know it, for she knew him better than anyone alive.  
  
He waited.  
  
"Come inside, George," she said, and he saw her forgiveness in her smile, spreading slowly across her face like an unfurling banner. "Come in and get warm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe thanks to so many people. First of all, to everyone who has ever read and commented, and who stuck with this story throughout the long months, your kindness has meant more to me than I can express.
> 
> To Tal, T-E, Azuladosia, Alfie, Pickle, and anyone else who listened to me tear my hair out, for putting up with me, and for their assistance with characterization and history tidbits. My apologies to anyone I missed—just know I love you all very much!
> 
> To Swan, for the monsters, because everything is better with monsters. 
> 
> To Mins, for the Hamilton Pamphlet, and for always picking up what I was putting down. Thank you for reading thousands of words about this man you hate.
> 
> To Scio, for always having my back, for Getting It, and for being the best friend and first reader anyone could ask for.
> 
> Finally, I have to admit that this story is entirely Shaina Philly-osopher's fault. Her offhand comments gave it life. From saying 'hey, you should expand that list of headcanons you wrote that one time, I'm sure it won't take long!" to casually letting me know that Benedict Arnold could plausibly have been in the West Indies at the same time our protagonists were, to making me look like slightly less of an idiot about sailing, she made it into what it is. Thank you, Shaina, and for the rest of you, direct any hate mail her way.
> 
> Any remaining errors are, as ever, my own.
> 
> If you would like to see what this ridiculous family is up to next, the best way to do that would be to subscribe to [the series page](http://archiveofourown.org/series/403045). I will be writing some one-shots in this verse next, and I don't feel strictly beholden to chronology. I do hope you will follow along!

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [herowndeliverance](http://herowndeliverance.tumblr.com)


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